The Crash Challenge
by Writers' Pulse
Summary: S1, ML. The collaboration by Shywr1ter, Lilmouse, BlueAngel137, Lisa0316, Mari83, and InsaneTrollLogic which found Max dragging Logan to Crash for the 'first' time is now complete with an epilogue sharing each character's final thoughts.
1. Introducing Writers' Pulse

_**The Crash Challenge**_

**Introduction:** The story you're about to read is the product of several writers' and several months' planning and drafting in a little group we've named **Writers' Pulse.** All of us have posted other S1, M/L fic on FFN, and have banded together for this group effort.

The story was the result of a challenge, the main point of which was to tell a story the way people would contribute to any event in real life – that is, from one person's own point of view. No ability to read all the characters' minds as we normally do in reading or writing; only the ability to observe other people around you and guess, to presume what others are thinking or feeling. As a result, this story has seven writers, with eight characters (one of our writers took double duty) with their eight, _different_, points of view.

We have several chapters ready to go, but plan, if all goes smoothly, to post one chapter a week. Please be understanding if we miss that goal by a day or two; we can't all be transgenic!

So you'll know what got us here, the original challenge, posted simultaneously on October 8, 2006 on the Dark Angel: Reflections board and here on FFN's Dark Angel forum, Blah Blah Woof Woof, is as follows:

**THE CHALLENGE:**

"So here's a challenge of a little different sort! Are you game?

The plan: we gather a group of writers together, and each chooses one of the DA characters to write from that character's point of view only. No law says that a writer is limited to picking only one character, but each installment will have to be from only one POV. Once we see who all is writing, and what characters are going to be involved, the plot is drawn and the writers may start in.

Some structure will be provided by the plot; to start this off, we'll chose a fairly brief moment to describe-- off the top of my head, say, tell the story of the first night Max convinces Logan to come to Crash with her. The story could thereby be limited to a few hours: a few before the event, the time at Crash, and references to whatever happens immediately thereafter. ;) This is just a random suggestion and not necessarily what we'll do with this; certainly if anyone has any ideas for what plot should be tried in this way, we can look at that as well.

Yes, it's asking you writers to take a leap of faith and join in the fun. It may sound like "work" to get this done but I have faith that we can get this done and have fun in the process!

What'dya say? We can do this!!!

**_-S-_**

_xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox_

And here, nearly eight months later, we're pleased to bring you _"The Crash Challenge."_  
Happy reading!

_The Writers' Pulse  
(June 1, 2007_)

BlueAngel137...Zack  
Lilmouse...Logan  
Shywr1ter...Max  
Lisa0316...Original Cindy  
Mari83...Murray the Bartender  
Insane Troll Logic...Lydecker  
Lisa0316...Sketchy  
Maria656...Bling

_**Prelude**_

"_The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed."  
Carl Jung (1875 - 1961)  
_


	2. Zack1, by BlueAngel137

**A/N:** This is the first part of our "little" project. It's written from Zack's POV. For all Challenge details, please read our Intro in chapter 1.

Thanks to Shywr1ter for creating this Challenge; thanks for all the great organization she did and for the valuable help she provided. And thanks to my fellow Writer's Pulse peeps for the encouragement and support. All our planning has been and is so much fun.

Hope you enjoy!

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"**Hit the road Zack"**

(written by BlueAngel137, beta-ed by Shywr1ter)

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**Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear – not absence of fear.**

_Mark Twain (1835 – 1910)_

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_Reno, Wednesday evening, 12:10 a.m._

Zack was riding his motorcycle through the neon-lit gambling town of Reno, heading for the Atlantis Casino that radiated an almost magnetic aura of wealth and luxury. Big gold nuggets sparkled enticingly above the large front entrance area of the casino, opening its wide glass doors to invited guests only. It was a huge building, impressive, despite some first signs of decay. The fountain in front of the building that used to send a high column of water into the sky had been turned off long ago. Water was too precious and expensive to just waste it as an eye-catcher. Now the once breath-taking fountain was littered with garbage and all kinds of graffiti decorated its walls.

Zack hated the town; he detested the scent of despair that crept through dirty back alleys, especially at night when men poured onto the streets, shoulders hanging, dark rings under bloodshot eyes. But he needed the money that was so easily accessible to him in the many casinos in and around Reno.

As opposed to the poor souls who desperately hoped to score a big hit but mostly failed, leaving all their badly needed savings in the loud and seedy gambling dens, all Zack had to do was to keep a low profile. He wandered from casino to casino, never winning more than a few hundred dollars at each place, and took care that he also lost a few times in every establishment. And as coincidental as his raid might look to the untrained eye, it was anything but. Every move Zack did had been thoroughly planned and was executed with surgical precision.

It wasn't the first time that he visited Reno, but he was very careful not to press his luck, therefore he rotated between the three big gambling cities of Las Vegas, Atlantic City and Reno, never showing up in any one town more than once within half a year unless there was an emergency.

Traveling was extremely expensive in post-pulse America. Zack didn't like the way he used his talents, but so far he hadn't come up with a better plan to get the amount of money he needed. In a small corner of his extraordinarily analytical mind, he knew he was playing a dangerous game, yet, as always, his raid on Reno had worked perfectly.

He left the last casino at 1:30 a.m., exactly as scheduled, with eighty three hundred bucks in his inside pocket, heading directly back to his shabby motel to catch a few hours of sleep, not because he needed the rest but because he couldn't risk getting tired or inattentive during his long trip north. All he really wanted was to hit the road, to feel the power of his Ducati Monster when he crossed the country at 70 miles per hour. He just had to get to Seattle in time, and every cell of his highly intelligent brain yelled at him to move out … _now_.

_**Max was in danger.**_

One of his more reliable sources at Manticore had informed him that Lydecker was planning to pay Seattle a visit. The Colonel had requested a TAC team to meet him in 48 hours at his Seattle base, and as Zack assumed that Max was still there, all his internal alarm bells had gone off.

Despite this very serious situation, Zack slept for three hours; unlike Max or Jondy he wasn't revved up with shark DNA and needed some sleep to reach his full potential. And he needed to be well prepared.

At 5:15 in the morning he cleared the motel room until no trace of his presence was visible anymore, and even wiped all smooth surfaces with a towel to make sure he'd left no fingerprints. Some would say he was obsessed, but he just wasn't taking chances.

When he reached the checkpoint on the city border at 5:40 a.m. there was already a long line of waiting cars filled with impatient drivers because authorities had decided to close the checkpoint during the night for security reasons. And despite his faked class 2 VIP passport it took him more than two hours to pass the checkpoint. But finally he was able to leave the city.

Zack's journey on Interstate 395 led him through the states of Nevada, California and eastern Oregon into Washington, crossing through small towns with odd names like Alkali Lake, Wagontire and Likely and a myriad of different landscapes. He passed huge red-brown canyons, built by thousands of years of erosion and the incredible power of water, and crossed a part of the Great Sandy Desert. He finally allowed himself to rest for a few hours in the small town, Odessa, that was probably named by German-Russian immigrants. The office with the sign "Schmidt's Insurance Services" and some tattered flags that read "Deutsches Fest 23th to 26th September" told him that much.

Odessa wasn't much more than a collection of old houses, some small shops, a run down motel and a post office, crossed by dusty streets in the middle of nowhere, but the flags and some remnants of colorful festival decoration along the wide main street showed that the town's inhabitants still managed to uphold their traditions.

Zack's eyes scanned his surroundings carefully while he dismounted and then secured his black Ducati, stretching cramped muscles that hurt like hell after hours of driving interrupted only by short stops at little frequented checkpoints. The tiny town seemed deserted, slumbering in velvety darkness, no sound reaching his sensitive ears.

It was 12:25 a.m. now, as Zack realized with a short glance at his black, multi tool Suunto wrist-watch, one of his few personal belongings he would never leave behind. _Only a little late_, he thought, while the serious, angular lines of his face softened into a wry smile, easing the air of exhaustion that radiated from him.

He had meant to reach Odessa at midnight, but still, it had taken him just over 19 hours to cover a distance of 785 miles and considering the conditions in post-pulse America he had made good time. It once again proved his theory that it was much faster to ignore the big highways like the 101 near the west coast, because it just took too long to pass through the many checkpoints they had. Besides, traveling on less frequented routes was much safer for him. Odessa was only 237 miles away from Seattle and he would easily reach his target area within half a day's ride, so it seemed to be the perfect place for a stop.

Zack loosened the straps of his backpack that were attached to the tank of his bike and threw the backpack over his broad, leather clad shoulder. After a last glance at his Ducati, he stepped out of the shadows into the flickering light that was provided by some old, oddly twisted street lamps. The tall, blonde man crossed the wide, almost empty parking lot with big, ground-covering strides, disappearing in the "Odessa 8 Motel". The door shut creakingly behind him, plunging the small town with a final click into silence again.

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_45 minutes later_

The night sky was pitch black; a thick, impenetrable mass of clouds concealed the tiny points of light that sent their rays over incredibly far distances. Neither the stars nor the moon watched him as the young man took a lock-pick from his jacket pocket and began his work at the battered, rusty lock, allowing himself a small smile of satisfaction when the door suddenly swung open only half a minute later.

The dark clad figure stood motionless for a few seconds, all senses concentrated on his surroundings, but all that met him was the soft whisper of the cool fall wind that rustled through dry leaves and whirled up the dust from the pavement. He gripped the door handle harder, and then decisively entered the building, carefully setting his feet to avoid making any noise. He closed the door, eyes instantly adjusting to the complete darkness, and quickly searched the run down place, only relaxing a bit when he realized that it was indeed empty. He nodded curtly when he found a door with a name plate that read "Dan Jordan, Postmaster".

It was 1:25 a.m. when Zack effortlessly overrode Dan Jordan's access password in the post office of small-town Odessa, using the probably most advanced computer within a radius of 50 miles, his narrowed eyes glued to the screen, rapidly scanning the data that was presented to him after a few entered commands.

He looked exhausted. A few strands of dark blonde hair threatened to fall into his eyes as he bowed his head, a soft sigh escaping his lips.

Suddenly, an emotion that was completely uncommon to him reached out its bony fingers … FEAR. It crawled up his spine … icy cold, searching for a way to enclose his heart like the thin, white threads of a spider's web, while his face lost all its color. Zack shook his head … disbelievingly. And for a second he simply refused to accept the information that mocked him in black, bold letters from the brightly lit computer screen. He closed his eyes. Had the information come from any other source he would have been inclined to say it was impossible. But Tinga had sent the e-mail from Portland, and he'd bet all the money he'd just won that her information was correct.

Gray pictures flashed through his mind. Childhood memories should put a smile on a man's face, but Zack's left him in a threateningly weak condition. He felt suddenly helpless, at his own mind's mercy, as a mass of emotions washed over him, accompanied by a flood of memories that he had buried so carefully deep inside him …

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…

_He was sitting, or rather, lying, on an examination chair, thick leather straps fastening his arms and legs to the cold steel frame, his heart pounding violently against his ribcage, the breath escaping his lungs in chopped gasps._

_They were going to hurt him … again. A cold shiver raced furiously through his body. He pressed his lips together._

'_There's no reason to be afraid,' the young boy thought, with all his might willing the rhythm of his heartbeat to slow down to a normal rate. He breathed deeply, and the mask that would hide his fear and hatred slipped over his face. 'Fear accomplishes nothing,' Zack thought stubbornly, but still, he wanted to be anywhere but in this cold, antiseptic smelling lab, deep down in Manticore's basement._

_A soft click announced that the door was being opened, but Zack couldn't see the person that entered the room; the chair he was sitting on was positioned with its back to the door. 'Intimidation tactics' the eleven-year-old thought grimly, determinedly raising his chin, ready to endure whatever fate was going to throw at him._

_But a small traitorous voice suddenly piped up deep inside him: 'You shouldn't be here … you're a good soldier.' _

_He held his breath, startled._

'_Maybe you have to go.' The voice continued ingratiatingly, already a bit louder._

'_**SHUT UP**__,' he thought furiously, attentively eying the pale, dark-blonde lab-tech that entered his field of vision, green lab-coat waving about him._

'_Mission parameters are crystal clear,' the rebellious voice insisted, plunging him into desperate confusion, when it added, very sure of itself: 'Take your group and GO … as soon as possible … before someone else gets killed.'_

'_**I'M NOT A COWARD,**__' Zack protested silently, while the lab-tech sunk the needle into his arm. '__**I WON'T BETRAY MANTICORE!**__'_

_But the protest was shattered into a million pieces when the insistent, cheeky voice pulled an ace from its sleeve. 'Max is in danger. Her seizures are almost as violent as Jack's were. You cannot risk something happening to her … YOU can't let them kill Max!'_

_For once his soldier voice ceased, its dumbstruck silence sealing the decision, a decision that was going to change his life completely and would turn his and his family's world upside down._

_The lab-tech scrutinized him coldly, patiently waiting for a reaction, his clipboard held safely in front of his chest, pen ready to scribble notes. _

_Zack met the man's glance calmly, eyes icy, his face blank. He knew what most of the facility's staff thought of them: they were freaks, dangerous little monsters … violent creatures … not even human. Knowing that was just one more reason to leave. They would go, and for once the Colonel would lose his intimidating, superior calmness. Zack almost smiled at the thought, when he suddenly felt a hot, violent wave of pain tear through his body. _

'_It's going to be over, soon,' he vowed to himself. _

_Zack's body suddenly shook violently. Consciousness left him as the pain became unbearable, but the boy wasn't afraid when he finally plunged into darkness … _

_End Flashback_

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**GET YOUR HEAD IN THE GAME, SOLDIER!** a voice ordered firmly, causing his eyes to widen until he managed to get his emotions under control. A mask slipped over his handsome face, leaving a blank look behind, jaw set tightly, eyes as hard as the young boy's had been so many years ago.

He had a mission to fulfill, and all that mattered at the moment was that mission. It was his responsibility to watch out for his siblings. He had led them out of Manticore and now he had to take care they stayed out. Going back wasn't an option, especially not for Max. Deep inside him Zack knew for sure that being back at that cold, gray place would get her killed. And he wasn't going to let that happen … _NEVER_.

The metamorphosis from a haunted human being to an emotionless soldier was completed within some seconds. Zack looked again at the information on the screen, imprinting every word into his memory. It was an ad for a motorcycle, followed by a 12 digit number: 332960073452 - Max's barcode.

TBC

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**Feedback much welcome!**

**A Logan chapter is already waiting in the pipe to be posted next week. Stay tuned! ;)**


	3. Logan1, by lilmouse

**Author's Note:** My thanks to Shywr1ter for creating this Challenge, and to all the authors who are part of the Writer's Pulse. You're wonderful, crazy people and it has been a blast. We're not quite done yet and I look forward to all the 'jamming' yet to come.

Feedback is always welcome so don't be shy. Cheers!

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**The Crash Challenge: Logan's POV 1 **

**No Rest For The Weary **

**By lilmouse**

**_"Begin - to begin is half the work, let half still remain; again begin this, and thou wilt have finished._****_"_**

_- Marcus Aurelius, Roman Emperor from A.D. 161 to A.D. 180_

_"Do not attempt to adjust your set. This is a Streaming Freedom Video Bulletin. The cable hack will last exactly sixty seconds. It cannot be traced, it cannot be stopped and it is the only free voice left in the city."_

The apartment is dark, clean, and empty - except for the space behind the rice paper divider, where the soft murmur of computers accompanies a flurry of typing. The stacks of file folders contrast with the otherwise meticulous environment - if the laundry bag is ignored - but then it has been a few days since the man bothered to put anything away.

The death of a hero will distract from such menial tasks.

Logan Cale can deal with the pain, both emotional and physical. It's the numbness that drives him mad. That part where he stares at the obituary section and recognizes the passing of another defender of justice, whether known to the public or unheralded by the world, all valued by Eyes Only and his community of informants. Whether he is involved directly or not, he feels responsible.

Then there is that point on his spine where sensation eludes him and everything beneath that is useless, dragging him down like quicksand. The numbness there is distracting and is a constant reminder of how much his life has changed. He doesn't like to admit that his self-confidence has been shaken but it has, a fact he ignores for the most part by keeping too busy to address it. His personal crusade has become all-consuming. It is a project only he can pursue, and complete, with any level of competency acceptable to him. He has lost track of the number of times he hasn't risen to his own exacting specifications.

It is all he has left. There aren't many reasons to get up in the morning so sometimes he doesn't bother going to bed at all.

The hack for Nathan Herrero has been broadcast. There is closure, acceptance, grief, denial, pain, and peace - and yet he cannot rest.

He shuffles some file folders and pulls something relevant to an on-going investigation - young girls missing, possibly abducted for nefarious purposes - and squints through his glasses at the printout in the task light at his desk. Before him, his laptop is running a search program related to gambling in Seattle. Behind him, a computer tracks the satellites and the next available opportunity for a hack.

Another computer on a shelf under his desk continuously researches a certain government organization and scours all available sources for traces of a dozen children who went missing ten years ago and shouldn't even exist.

It is the most he can do for her, which frustrates him no end. He wants to be able to give her so much more than trickles of hope in this shattered world.

It's late but that has never stopped him before. He can feel the grit in the corners of his eyes and removes his glasses briefly to use his free hand and rub it away. He works better at night, anyway. Perhaps it's the lack of opportunity for interruption but he can't be sure. Maybe it's the darkness outside his window, keeping him company where the sunlight just mocks him.

_Come outside and play, Logan,_ the sun's glare cries.

_Not in the light, where I can be seen by everyone, thank you very much, _he replies.

He glances at the clock - 12:10 AM - and sighs. His coffee mug is empty and he's down to instant because he didn't take the time to go to the market today. A shame there's nothing open at this time of night, at least not anywhere he'd want to shop. He looks in the mug, at the dried, brown dregs in the bottom, and wonders when driving to informant drops at three-in-the-morning in some of the roughest sectors of Seattle became a more acceptable pastime than going to the market in broad daylight like any sane human.

He sighs. Maybe that's where the line has been drawn. He's finally losing his sanity to the cause that is Eyes Only, letting his own identity slide into the shadows. Logan Cale is being shuffled to the bottom of a deck of cards like an unwanted spade.

_How poetic,_ he thinks bitterly. _I'll have to write that down._

Folder in one hand, mug in the other, the two options temporarily war with one another. _Work, caffeine, work, caffeine…_

He purses his lips, tosses the folder onto his desk and places the mug in his lap. He releases the brakes and expertly turns the wheelchair, traveling the short distance to the kitchen and using the remote control he has strapped to his left thigh to activate the low-light settings of the apartment as he moves. He grabs the kettle impatiently and fills it with water.

What would Nathan Herrero think of him now? Twitching in the dark, trying to make sense of Chaos. He sighs again. At least Allan Lans won't be getting away with murder anymore.

_Small consolation._

Logan cleans his mug and waits for the water to boil. As he broods, he replays his day and realizes that he didn't stop for dinner - _again_. It's beginning to become a habit, missing meals when a certain young woman isn't scheduled to visit. _Then_ he finds time to shop for food and tries to plan interesting menus with the limited variety of fresh items he can find. He researches recipes, makes lists, stretches his culinary skills to try to surprise her. His day has order, precision. Everything, including his work, becomes clearer and sharper, almost to the point of bleeding. Almost to the point of feeling alive again.

Dinner becomes a military operation that would rival the assimilation strategies of the Roman Empire.

He tries not to think about the correlation between Max and conquests. He doesn't think of her as someone to seduce and smirk about later in the privacy of his bedroom. She deserves so much more, someone better than him, someone who can at least meet her halfway. Intellectually, he has some advantages. Emotionally, he's broken but then so is she, just in a different way and for different reasons. Physically -

He doesn't want to need her presence to feel whole.

_And besides, they aren't like that._

The water boils. It gurgles when he pours it into his mug and the sound of his spoon clinking against the ceramic echoes against the stainless steel perfection of his kitchen. It sounds loud and he decides the apartment is too quiet. He finds another button on his personally modified universal remote and sets the CD player for random selection. The lights on his stereo blossom blue on the other side of the apartment, like an alien intelligence coming to life. He allows himself a small smile at that thought and pushes the short distance to the 'fridge.

He is out of milk.

He sits with the door open, the light of the 'fridge revealing the limited contents of the shelves. His smile drifts into a frown. He didn't realize his supplies were so low. That's what happens when he gets too wrapped up in his investigations and Bling takes a few days off to visit his family. A quick scan reveals he's low on everything but it's the milk that sticks with him. There is a certain someone who frequently needs it to assist with her chemical imbalance. It isn't tryptophan - he keeps a supply of that in his medicine cabinet - but it helps and seems to give her some comfort.

There is so little he can do for her. It haunts him. As much as he might acknowledge that it is unreasonable to assume responsibility for her and her siblings, he studies the pictures of the other X-5s he has on file and apologizes to each and every one of them. It gives him little comfort and provides no practical assistance for the adult super soldiers who might still be out there, hiding like Max. Existing, not living, denied any type of a normal life that the post-Pulse world could offer almost everyone else.

And here he sits, heat and electricity paid, medical bills covered. Hiding in his apartment, ignoring his own opportunity for a 'normal' life and moaning about instant coffee.

_How compassionate of you, Cale. Give yourself a pat on the back._

He closes the 'fridge door, finds pen and notepad on the counter and starts to make a list of 'Things to Do', stoically taking a few sips from his mug of black, bitter, pseudo-coffee.

He knows he should eat but doesn't feel inspired. He tries not to think about that too much, either.

As light jazz permeates the room, he wonders where Max is tonight - _this morning,_ he corrects himself, noting by his ever-present watch that it is now 12:35 AM. Probably with her friends at Crash or Bang or whatever the current hot spot is for the hip young crowd these days. He doesn't follow the scene but knows enough based on what Max has said that it isn't his style. Hell, he's even been to Crash. About four months ago, he'd swaggered through the front door, down the stairs and asked the burly bartender if his beautiful, elusive thief was in the house.

He hadn't phrased his question that way, of course, and he shouldn't think about Max in terms that had him skirting the category of 'romantic fool'. He isn't a stalker. He was just used to getting what he wanted, and what he wanted at that time was answers.

The opportunity to see her again, to be reminded of that night and Bast, an odd but exhilarating conversation by flashlight and shattered glass, had not been related to his pursuit of her at all. And there she was, amid the music and bodies and pool players and noisy conversation, obviously surprised by his presence and not pleased to see him.

Max has alluded to the fact that he needs to get out more and 'unplug', but he has far too many projects on the go right now and isn't sure that her idea of relaxation would gel with his.

Finally giving in to the demands of his all-too-human body, he makes more instant coffee and scrapes cream cheese onto a two-day-old bagel before returning to the computer. He eats without really tasting it, finishes research on one project and diligently plows into another.

Relaxation isn't a word he considers applicable to his life.

No rest for the weary.

_"Two men are dead and another critically wounded after a shoot-out near the Superior Court building today. This dramatic footage was captured by police hover drones."_

There are decisions he wishes he could change. If not for him and his stubborn desire to save the world, Peter would still be alive, protesting his rash behaviour, attempting to curb the personal risks he takes, making sure they didn't run out of coffee. Logan would still be walking. Of course, Sonrisa would still be active and a mother and daughter would probably be dead. The number of veterans affected by the continued substitution of medication would only escalate until it no longer became profitable. Then anyone involved with the project would be silenced and Sonrisa would continue to be elusive smoke in the system.

There is always a price to be paid when you play hero. He knows that Peter understood that. He thinks he understood it, too, before his injury. He tries to grasp it daily and sometimes it's just too much to absorb.

_Balance in the universe._

Logan Cale has achieved a kind of balance but is well aware of the cost.

He hopes Max knows the risks when she gives him that grin and offers to be his legs in exchange for a sandwich. It doesn't seem a fair trade and aside from his continued investigation into the fate of her siblings, he doesn't know why she agrees to do it.

He works until four then reluctantly strips, has a shower and crawls into bed, barely remembering to remove his glasses and pull the sheets haphazardly over his body before slipping into a fitful sleep.

He dreams of a young woman in a leather cat suit, mingling with her friends, completely unaware that a man in a wheelchair is waiting at the edges of the crowd, desperate for her to ask him to dance.

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**A Max chapter is all set to post next Friday, so don't forget to check your Inbox, peeps!**


	4. Max 1, by Shywr1ter

**DISCLAIMER:** Even though there's a bunch of us, we still own nothing (no show, no characters, no foolin'!) and certainly make no profit beyond the fun we've had in doing this story.

**A/N: ** Many thanks to my Pulsette sisters for their time and talents, patience and persistence, enthusiasm and energy! You all make me smile at least once a day. And as you're now seeing, we are all borrowing Lilmouse's signature style of adding a quote at each chapter's opening. Thanks, Mouse, it's been fun to borrow your idea for this group effort.

Special thanks to those of you who have joined us to read. _**Please note:**_ sharp-eyed Lisa noticed we'd disabled anonymous reviews. It was never intended and is now fixed, for all comers – so we would all appreciate it if you'd let us know what you think. It's great to have you with us!

_xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxooxoxoxoxoxoxo_

"**Just Looking Out for My Meal Ticket**"

_The Crash Challenge_, _Max POV 1, by Shywr1ter_

"From reading too much, and sleeping too little, his brain dried up on him and he lost his judgment."  
Miguel de Cervantes (1547-1616)

_xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxooxoxoxoxoxo_

As if Manticore hadn't given her enough to worry about, this 'perfect recall' she had could bring words back to haunt and gnaw at her, especially for things which were important to her or had special meaning...

_Do not attempt to adjust your set... _

She should have known Logan would find something to broadcast about Herrero and his death, but not this soon, or she would have talked him out of it, told him to wait. Still under the competing influences of his anger that his hero hadn't lived up to his own, demanding, borderline-pathological standards, and his sorrow at losing a friend and mentor, Logan – Eyes Only – was letting his passions cloud his more logical thought.

_Yesterday a great man died._..

Had he been thinking clearly, Logan would have caught this, and not have dangled this tid-bit in his hack, in front of everyone wanting Eyes Only silenced for good:

_He was my friend._

Max knew better than to think that these four short words would be missed by the police, by the officials still pursued by him, by the organized crime syndicates who were hobbled by Eyes Only's watchful oversight...

_**He was my friend.**_

It echoed in her head. _Damn, Logan, what were you thinking?_ _Sloppy emotional reactions will get you killed,_ she could hear Lydecker intone. He was right on that one; just because he was an evil bastard didn't mean he didn't have a point. And on the tape she'd seen Logan play back, more than once, of Alina asking for Eyes Only's help, he let even more slip: _"We were colleagues, back in the days of the Pacific Free Press."_

A friend and co-worker, the bad guys might now know. Had it occurred to Alina to drop that knowledge on Allan Lans? Had she been wearing a wire not found by Logan's operatives? If that information got back to Lans, they just had narrowed the pool of "Who is Eyes Only?" down to a very few people...

...and she felt another small knot of dread to wonder how many in the pool had such remarkable, distinctive eyes...

"Max!"

Original Cindy's voice cut through her dark thoughts, clearly not the first time she'd tried getting Max's attention. _Sloppy emotional reactions_, Max repeated to herself, as she looked back up to her friend. _Et tu, Max?_

"Your shot."

Max grimaced as she moved around the table, eyeballing the layout and the various shots she could take, calculating trajectories and projecting likelihood of success, figuring optimal contact location, pressure and speed between cue and ball – and settled on a clear shot, aiming slightly off optimal with slightly too much force, to result in a hairline close miss. Sketchy groaned as Max passed the table to their opposition without getting even one ball closer to winning. She glared at him, still not speaking.

But Original Cindy was studying Max, eyebrows drawn, and when Max missed her shot, Cindy sided up to her as Herbal circled the table for his try. "Okay, Boo. Wanna tell Original Cindy what has you so tensed up and bitchy tonight?"

Max stared at the table in front of them, shaking her head with a shrug. "Nothing," she muttered.

"Logan," Original Cindy nodded sagely, eyebrows back in place for her smirk. "What'd he do this time?"

"It's not Logan," Max insisted, her frustration with Logan making her tone nearly as pissy as his could be.

"Whatever. Did you call him?"

Max finally glanced over to Cindy's patient, insistent expression, just as Herbal sank the last ball and beamed his success. "Pay up!" he grinned to Sketchy, then to her. With a grunt, Max tossed her cue on the table and moved off to the bar, ordering a pitcher of beer for the winners. She had a feeling she wasn't done with the interrogation...

"Whatever it is, just call him, Boo. The boy has feelings for you..." As Max's dark eyes swung back to her friend as she came up behind her, Cindy prodded, "and with all this drama, looks like you do, for him, too. So what's the problem?"

Max finally relented. Cindy saw through a lot of bullshit and was a good judge of her fellow human beings – even the whack ones. And it felt good to have someone to listen, who cared about the answer, like Cindy did. "Logan gets so tied up in things, you know?" she began, slowly. "Everything's a drama, everything is a crusade. He does articles on the environment or politics and he's Don Quixote, convinced he's going to fight City Hall and turn the city around. It kills him if his articles are out there and still, nothing changes," she censored, Logan's identity as a journalist allowing a convenient, usable analogy for his work. "He's so grim – he's going to explode. And a teacher of his, this role-model he idolized, just died..." She paused briefly, thinking about his unrelenting drive. "I think it's affecting his work, everything. He's all hard on himself, usually when he has no reason to even think he has any responsibility in the matter. He just needs to relax, you know, have some fun." As the bartender slid the full pitcher over to her she pulled it closer, but didn't lift it, still thinking. "I wonder if he knows _how_ to have fun..."

"So bring him here," Cindy shrugged.

Max snorted, "yeah, right. I see that happening."

"Have you asked him to come here, you know, just come chill for a while?"

"I've told him I was meeting up with everyone here, and he could come along..."

"Yeah, I bet. 'I'm gonna go see my _friends_ now, instead of hanging out here with _you_, but if you want to tag along when I go see the _fun_ crowd...'" Cindy mimicked, not flatteringly.

"I didn't," she protested, uncomfortable with how familiar it suddenly sounded. How did Cindy know her so well? It was as if she had been listening in...

"Boo, Logan is a lot like a good friend of mine. Talks all tough, all 'whatever,' like it's all water rollin' off her back..." She gave Max a meaningful look before going on, " but along with whatever has him all wound up about saving the world, the boy probably ain't been back in circulation all that much since he was shot and ain't so used to not being the tallest guy in the room. So not only does he have his crisis of the week to write about – he's probably feelin' pretty new to clubbin' on wheels. So if you _really_ wanted him to come..." her voice softened, "you might drop the 'whatever' for him and tell him you'd like him to come along. It's not like he didn't show up here before, lookin' for you. I have a feeling he'd go just about anywhere you wanted him to go – if he knew you _wanted_ him to, and weren't just askin' as a 'poor-Logan' afterthought."

Max sat up a bit straighter, a feeling of defensiveness taking her over, "Cindy, that's not what I..."

"Max, _I_ know that. But Logan might not, not _really_. Each of you has some serious denial clouding your otherwise normal judgment."

_Sloppy emotional reactions_... So Cindy was channeling Lydecker now? Max sighed, slumping finally. "Maybe I could have asked ... better. I'll tell him tomorrow..."

"_Tell_ him? Tell him what? _Ask_ him, Boo. _Invite_ him. Tomorrow, say 'Logan, I really would like you to come to Crash with me. You'd have a good time there, good people are there, we can shoot some pool and you can kick back.'"

Max rolled her eyes. "Like telling him to come home and meet the family?" she drawled, sarcastically.

But Cindy's expression carried the importance she saw in this moment. "Something like that." She leaned closer, and said, "you like this boy, Boo, and he's crazy about you, no matter what either of you say. Think how much it would mean to him, to know that you wanted him to come meet the family – even if it's your Crash family." She pulled away again. "Your move, Max. Just keep in mind that Logan is different than all those other boys I've seen you with." When Max's eyes asked, Original Cindy smiled softly to explain, "the Fogbank ain't shown up in a while ... just a woman obsessing about what a certain rich-boy journalist is up to, with all his moods. Looks to me as if you want him to meet the family, too."

Max stared into the pitcher, unable to deny any of what Cindy said, dead on even when she hadn't been given the unvarnished truth about Logan and what he was up to. "C'mon, Max, time to pay up." Sketchy's hang-dog face suddenly appeared at her side, a he reached for the beer.

She straightened, still edgy, and griped at him, "Seems I'm doing the paying for both of us."

Sketchy smirked, a look of superiority crossing his face. "I'm not the one having an off-night."

Max's hand shot out to cover his, a retort nearly out before she stopped herself. After a moment, unmoving, she pulled away slowly and turned back toward the bar, brooding again.

Sketchy glanced to Original Cindy, who sharply nodded him back over to join Herbal. She turned back to Max as he disappeared in the crowd. "So what do you think?"

Max sighed again, then looked to her friend, with a shrug. "Guess it wouldn't hurt anything to ask." She glanced around the place, eyes falling on the stairs leading down from the street entrance into the bar. "That's going to be a problem, though." Max knew perfectly well where the back door to the bar was, and that it emptied onto an alley perpendicular to the street – thanks to Lydecker, she was never in a place more than 45 seconds before determining escape routes and alternate entrances – but her friend wouldn't know that. Max turned to the bartender. "Hey, Murray–"

The man she knew from her frequent nights at Crash stepped closer. "Yeah, Max?"

"Guy in a wheelchair wants to come in for a beer. How's he get in?"

"See that door, by the cue rack? He can park out back and come in through the alley."

"I thought Sketchy said you keep it locked."

"I do, in this neighborhood," he grinned. "But there's a bell out there, and it buzzes _and _trips a light, here," he pointed to a small red light above the bar. "Light stays on until I switch it off, so I don't miss a buzz in the noise. It's used for day time deliveries, mostly, but... I'm afraid it's the only way in without stairs." His look was apologetic.

"Hey, at least you have a way in." She turned back to Cindy. "Guess I won't tell him about the back alley part 'til we get here."

Original Cindy smirked. "He didn't have a problem having a secret meeting with the police out in the boondocks. I bet the boy would even meet here, if it was for you." At her teasing tone, Max threw her a questioning look, but Cindy only grinned, as if she wasn't spilling everything. "He probably loves being sent to back alleys," she laughed, sealing the plan.

For the first time that night, Max actually smiled a little. "There's an idea – I'll tell him there's a story to uncover at Crash. He'll be here to open the place."

**Coming next week: more Logan!  
**


	5. Logan 2, by lilmouse

**The Crash Challenge: Logan's POV 2**

**Author's Note: I'll be brief, as it is early and I want to get this posted in a timely manner. My continued to thanks to the crew of Writer's Pulse, without whom some incredible writing would not exist. I cannot thank enough.**

**And now I'll shut up and let Logan take over. Enjoy!**

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

**Taking Chances **

**By lilmouse**

_**"I would rather be a meteor  
every atom of me in magnificent glow  
Then a sleepy and permanent planet."**_

- Jack London (1876-1916)

He heard the door at seven sharp and wondered if she had some genetic sixth sense when it came to detecting a fresh pot of coffee.

Logan Cale had slept poorly for only a few hours and woken with a headache. He'd showered and dressed and made it to the kitchen, still chagrined that his 'fridge was so pitifully low on consumables. Breakfast was going to be toast with whatever jarred condiment he had that wasn't growing something. He'd grimaced at the thought, but at least there was coffee.

_Nasty, instant, horrid, blessed, caffeinated coffee -_

"What, no omelets today?"

Max was chipper and bright and seemed happy despite the drizzle outside. There was a bounce to her step and an edge of nervous energy. He was immediately suspicious. "Not today," he muttered, and focused on his toaster so he wouldn't stare at the beautiful young woman approaching.

_Damnit, Cale, get a life._

She jumped to sit on the counter, apparently perfectly comfortable, and grinned. He knew she was grinning because he could _hear_ it. "Are the chickens on strike?"

He pursed his lips. "Noooo," he replied. His toast popped up. He snatched both pieces with one hand, dropped them on a plate and turned to rummage in the cupboard for some jam. "No eggs in the 'fridge."

"Eggs don't come from a 'fridge, Logan," she teased lightly. "You need to go to the market for that."

He paused in sniffing some jam he hadn't used in a while and leveled her with a look over the top of his glasses, mouth set firmly in an expression that she would probably interpret as 'Logan Pissed Off' - which was accurate enough. He suspected there was more to her visit than just a social call or a hunt for breakfast and he wished she'd get to the point.

_God, I'm grumpy today._

Her breathing hitched a bit - he didn't fully understand why - but then she swallowed and the grin slipped slightly and he instantly felt like a jerk.

"Sorry, Max," he said, hoping his reserve of 'polite' wasn't being strained. He wriggled a knife in the jam, giving it a quick stir before pouring some out and scraping it roughly on the toast. "Not having a good morning."

_And I still haven't taken my painkillers._

"I'm sorry to hear that," she said gently. He located his glass of water and pulled the pills from his shirt pocket. He knew she was watching closely but he couldn't do anything about it. He'd meant to take them earlier but had forgotten, though the headache as a constant reminder. He swallowed them easily, despite their size and number. Amazing what you get used to when you have no choice.

"Sounds like you need a break, Logan."

He poured both of them some coffee and raised one eyebrow. Maybe she was going to get to the point of her visit sooner rather than later, but then she was working today and he estimated she would have to be at Jam Pony in less than half an hour.

"Is this an egg joke?" he asked.

"Noooo, this is where I ask if you'll go out with me tonight."

She said it casually but her body was tense, he could tell. He'd been around her long enough to know that she was nervous. She maintained eye contact, though, despite the grip she had on his kitchen counter.

He licked his lips. "Out?"

"Yep." That one word emerged a bit sharply but it was there.

"You're serious? With the workload I have?" _Out? Out where? Could she possibly be suggesting a -_

_Nah._

He finished his water, put the plate in his lap, and rolled briskly to the office. Max followed, a mug of coffee in each hand. She placed his on the desk and leaned against one of the filing cabinets, sniffing her coffee tentatively.

"You even have better instant than I do. That _so_ isn't fair."

He smirked at that; he couldn't help it. The smirk became a quiet laugh as he booted his computer. It was hard to stay angry with Max for very long. It didn't preclude him staying angry with himself, however. Sometimes Max got the brunt of that, too.

"That's the way the cookie crumbles," he quipped. His screen came to life and he entered several passwords to gain access to a file he'd been working on the day before.

"You've got _cookies_?"

He sighed. "I might. Check the usual jar."

She was off and back in as much time as it took for him to open a few research windows and try to enter the headspace of Eyes Only.

"Want one?" He eyed the chocolate chip treat but shook his head and chewed on his cold toast. The jam was strawberry; he hadn't bothered to read the label. She shrugged. "Your loss."

"No doubt."

They lapsed into silence, broken periodically by the tapping of keys and the munching of cookies. Logan sipped his coffee and wondered if they'd digressed sufficiently to avoid any further conversation around 'going out'.

"So, whatdya say? About tonight?"

_So much for that hope._

"Max, did I _mention_ that I have a lot of work to do?" _Oh, that sounded brusque._

It didn't deter her at all.

"All work, no play makes Eyes Only a dull pair of eyes. C'mon - come to Crash tonight."

_Crash. Of course. Where else would she want to hang out? But why drag me into the mix?_

He blinked at her, surprised, then snorted. "Yeah. Right." He turned back to his work, smirking a little, trying to hide the odd tinge of disappointment that _that_ was what she proposed.

"C'mon, Logan. You've been cooped up here so long without getting away from things you're turning as grey as you look in that monitor light." She lifted one of his hands just inches from his nose for effect, let the bluish tint of the monitor light bounce off his pale skin. "You need to get out, come have a beer with us. _Relax._"

Logan liberated his hand and grabbed the other piece of toast. He considered the suggestion, but there were so many negatives that made him want to decline, despite her sincere invitation. He supposed he could handle a trip to the bar, maybe even play a game of pool. It had been an age since he'd had a cue in his hands. He figured he could manage not to embarrass himself too much, even with his current physical status, but drawing attention to himself in public was a given when he wasn't even trying. A game of pool with a paraplegic was guaranteed to gather a crowd.

He'd really enjoy that. Oh, yes.

Then there were the food options. Beer, pretzels, nachos covered in something that might be a meat product, but who could tell? How appealing.

What else did they do at Crash? Dancing. _Yeah. Right._ He'd be really good at that. Then there was conversing with her friends, people whom he swore spoke a language that had only remote connections with English, and though his linguistic skills weren't too bad - he _did_ survive that trip to Europe back in college without embarrassing himself too severely - this was a whole sub-section of hip-hop humanity that, as hard as he tried, he had trouble understanding. He was sure they were good people, if Original Cindy was any indication, but most of them were just -

_Kids._

He sighed. _If I'm going to continue to interact with Max, I should probably get a handbook that'll give me the 'skinny' or communication might deteriorate completely._

_God, I feel old -_

"Max, I can find my own relaxation. And it's not too likely that I'll find it in a noisy, messenger-filled bar that has videos playing nonstop of fiery, gory automobile crashes as its main entertainment."

_There. That sounded final._

"Most of them _aren't_ gory," she reasoned. Logan grunted and turned back to the monitor, but he suspected he wouldn't get out of it that easily.

He was right.

"If not for you, then do it for me. You're moping around here, not sure if you're madder at Herrero for being human, or at yourself, for guilting him back aboveground.It's pretty grim around here, waiting for the old Logan to come back."

That stopped Logan's movements. "Well, I'm sorry that a man's death has you bummed out," he said, tightly.

"If it was just his death that had you 'bummed out' I'd leave you alone. But it's not... and I think if you got out and got some fresh air you'd see that." She paused then added, her voice softer now, concern threaded through the sound of it. "It wasn't your fault, Logan."

He sat, unmoving, staring unseeing at the screen before him for more long moments before drawing a breath to speak. "Fresh air." Finally, he turned to look back up at her dubiously. "In Crash?

"It's a start..."

Glancing away, he mulled it over again before he admitted, heavily, "Max, if I hadn't known Nathan Herrero, hadn't seen him take on _everyone_, no matter how powerful or protected, I would never have thought that a project like Eyes Only would ever have a chance at making any difference. I wouldn't have even tried it, without his example. He taught me that it only takes one man, as long as you were patient, tenacious and believed it was possible." Logan sighed, glancing back at Max. "The idea that Nathan Herrero would just... drop out, as he did..." He paused again, the guilt washing over him. "And he didn't live long enough, once I learned the truth, for me to tell him how glad I was that he hadn't died after all."

Max considered him. "I thought it was something like that." She shifted her weight, sipped her coffee and challenged, "What happened to the tough guy who said 'I've never been much for trying to figure out why bad things happen. I just know they do.'"

He wavered. "Not so tough?" he suggested. It felt as if he were admitting his failings. Dispirited, he confessed, "The bad things aren't usually _my_ doing, Max."

"'So, the job's trying to figure out how to deal with the consequences'," she quoted again. "Beating yourself up won't bring him back, and Alena was _good_, Logan, if she had us both so convinced that she missed her father." She looked at him, as if assessing his reaction. "Don't take the rap for this, Logan. For any of it, even if you were used for the murder. You couldn't have known what was coming. And about Herrero." Logan tensed. "If he ever had the passions you said he did, he'll know exactly why you were upset with his dropping out. He probably made the same speeches you must have made to him, back in the day."

He looked back up to Max and hesitated before breaking his gaze and staring at the monitor again. Her words struck home and not for the first time he marveled at the level of maturity in one so young. He considered his own behaviour. _Maybe more mature than I am half the time._ Finally, he asked wryly, "Won't it be awkward for you, if I just show up there, at Crash?"

She looked surprised. "No. Why? And if you come with me, anyway..."

Pool at Crash. A date with Max. _A date -?_

His eyebrows lifted. "You wanted me to -" He stopped, starting again. "You wanted _me_ to come with _you_ -" He blinked a little, and added, "But your friends would know, then, that we know each other."

"Well, yeah, of course. Cindy knows already, anyway." She seemed confused by his confusion, and glanced away, saying, "Hey, look, if you're afraid they'll think we have 'that kind of a relationship' and you don't want -"

_Smooth, Logan._

"Max..." She looked back to him and he could tell she was scrambling to regroup after his apparent rejection. _Damn._ He shook his head. "Nothing like that. I - I just -" _Why am I stammering?_ "These are _your_ friends, Max, your hang-out. I don't want to show up and make things..." He shrugged, not sure how he could finish the sentence without confessing: _Uncomfortable, if they thought you were stuck with a guy far older and far less mobile than everyone else in the room._

Max seemed to relax and she smiled softly. "You'll make things interesting. For _me_, anyway, and we sure could use it there." _Maybe that would be okay_, he thought, and his frown receded. "So, whatdya say?" she continued. "When should I come get you?" He must have looked skeptical, for she added, "I usually get there by nine, when things are starting to warm up a little. How about then?"

_Carpe diem._

"How about I meet you at Crash at nine?"

Her eyebrows rose. "_Meet_ me?"

"Yeah. I have a few appointments before I can break away." _That sounded like a compromise, didn't it?_ "No reason why you have to be late on my account -"

"Oh, no." Max grinned and finished her coffee. "No, you don't get off that easily."

He looked up at her over the top of his glasses again. "Excuse me?"

"I'll meet you _here_ at eight forty-five and follow you to Crash on my baby. You do know you can get in by the back door, right? Where the shipments are delivered?"

"I recall that from the last time I was there," Logan said, licking his lips again. _Nerves._ He knew he did it and couldn't seem to stop.

"Yeah, right." She pushed away from the desk and paused at the open divider. "See you at eight forty-five."

"Yeah," Logan said faintly, trying not to notice the way her hips swayed as she walked away. When the door closed, he whispered to himself, "What have I done?"


	6. Max 2, by shywr1ter

**Disclaimer:** No ownership; no profits. Too bad, huh?

**A/N:** If this chapter sounds familiar-- it should! Since this is a POV challenge, we bring you the second half of a Logan-Max meta-collaboration, now from Max's point of view. It was fun to develop and a cool way to find a challenge-within-a-challenge. So again thanks to everyone in Writers' Pulse, with extra cheese to Mouse for having the patience to bounce this back & forth...

...and big thanks to all of you who read. _Please let us hear from you!_

_xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxooxoxoxoxoxoxo_

"**Mission: Damn Near Impossible**"

_The Crash Challenge_, _Max POV 2, by Shywr1ter_

"For aught that I could ever read,  
Could ever hear by tale or history,  
The course of true love never did run smooth."

William Shakespeare, "A Midsummer Night's Dream", Act 1 scene 1

_xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxooxoxoxoxoxo_

At 6:59 A.M., Max stepped into the elevator, swiped her key card through the reader and punched the button for Logan's floor, smirking quietly as she remembered Logan's consternation leading to his giving her a card of her own.

_Picking a lock is one thing, but you screw up the mechanism getting the elevator to my floor, I won't be there to get dinner for either of us, _he'd said as he handed her the card.

Tucking the card away, she focused on her plan to get Logan to Crash. She alternately thought of this as a mission, with an objective and methods A, B and C needed to accomplish it, and as not-her-problem. She was probably losing it to give a damn about Logan's mood anyway. _What with all his crusades, he's probably enjoying his brooding_, she'd tried telling herself. At least four times now.

She wasn't buying it.

The longer she had known Logan Cale, the more she sensed that his biggest battles weren't with the city's corrupt officials or the ever-shifting organized crime syndicates in league with them, but within himself, some whack sense of duty or responsibility to right every wrong. It was as if every success just meant that if he were the one to fix _that_ mess, then he was the only one who could handle the next one.

_That was it – wasn't it? If so, how'd he get __**there**__ all the way from yachts and the Ivy League?_

_And what the hell is it to you anyway, Max? _

As the elevator opened and Max took the two steps across the entry hall to his door, she shook off the thoughts. While it might make for a smoother, more easily accomplished mission, it wasn't imperative that she know _why_ her target was acting the way he was, but only that his current course of behavior couldn't continue as it was: it had to change, if possible, or be tempered, at least. And she didn't really need to know if she had a personal stake in the change. Eyes Only was doing enough good in the community —_ hell, even Sketchy can see that_ — that if she could just step in and get him to dial things back a bit, everyone would be better off.

Nothing to do with her at all, really.

She let herself in and immediately grimaced at the 'intel' she gathered from the air around her. _Coffee, freshly made._ But not his brewed, regular fare: she sniffed _instant_. The stuff he refused to touch if there was the oldest, stalest, cheapest ground coffee around from which he could squeeze a cup. Instant coffee was the Logan Cale version of an MRE; something he admitted once that he'd almost prefer eating and swallowing dry for the caffeine it offered, the only possible reason to ever consume it, to mixing it with water and drinking. _Not good._

Even worse: he was preparing his instant coffee at 7:00 A.M. Another bad sign. For as long as she'd known him, Logan was never up "voluntarily" at 7:00 A.M. 7:00 A.M. meant either he'd not been to bed yet, or he was in the middle of some project and wouldn't allow himself more than an hour or two of sleep in his drive to work. Or maybe he was in pain, as seemed to happen sometimes, preventing his sleeping at all – or worse. Whatever it was, it meant two things for her objective: it would be even harder than normal to accomplish – and it was even more important that she accomplish it. At least it could be done in person this way, rather than leaving him a note, as she'd come to do to begin warming him up to the idea.

_Focus, Max. Sunny, cheery; ignore whatever you see and tell him… no, __**invite**__ him_, she revised, remembering Original Cindy's words, _to Crash. No matter what he says. _

As she closed the door behind her, she took a deep breath, forced herself to plaster a smile on her face and affect a casual air, and strolled back toward the kitchen, ready to roll with whatever she found…

_He looked terrible._

Well, he was in clean clothes, at least, and his hair was still damp from a recent shower, his warm skin still scented with his soap. _'Terrible' for Logan_, she amended. _Logan, even in the worst of times, was ... not so bad looking..._ At the moment, however, he was glaring into his unusually bare refrigerator when he glanced up at her entrance. He was pale; his eyes looked slightly red and ringed with the dark circles of insomnia.

_Logan, why do you do this to yourself?_

But she remembered her mission and how she planned to accomplish it. She raised an eyebrow, came closer and smirked, "What, no omelets today?"

He looked back up at her and immediately looked defensive. "Not today," he muttered. He turned away from her, staring at his toaster, as if he were willing her to disappear.

_Don't take this one personally, Max_, she warned herself up front. _Things were grim before you even got here — this isn't about you. Or, at least, mostly isn't… _She backed up a bit to hop up on the counter, a convenient seat near the action but out of his way for wherever he might go puttering in the kitchen, and refused to let the 'welcome' daunt her. _Just remember the mission_, she regrouped. "Are the chickens on strike?" she nudged.

He pursed his lips. "Noooo," he replied. His toast popped up. He snatched both pieces with one hand, dropped them on a plate and turned to rummage in the cupboard for some jam. "No eggs in the 'fridge."

"Eggs don't come from a 'fridge, Logan," she teased again, still going for a light tone. "You need to go to the market for that." _You need to take a break and go sniff around the market, go on one of those ingredient quests that you always turn into a culinary adventure, taking it on as a personal challenge to your cooking prowess, no matter how often you try to pretend the inconsistency is so irritating. _

He looked up from the jam jar he'd begun to examine, looking at her as if her presence was an imposition, almost as if she were the reason he was sniffing near-rancid jam, leveling her with a look probably designed to make sure she knew it – and her hopes stumbled. She suddenly wondered if she'd been kidding herself, thinking that he would let her into his confidence this time.

_Maybe not such a great plan, Max, if he feels that way about your being here. God, am I that hard to take?_

She suddenly found herself wondering if he would ever want to come to Crash with her – or go much of anywhere with her-- other than to have her "special" skills handy to accomplish some Eyes Only task he needed. She felt her breath clutch ever so slightly, more emotional than she liked, and in response swallowed, hard, and worked to keep her composure, her smile in place. But then he spoke.

"Sorry, Max," he said, then turned back his task, maybe trying to come to terms with her presence, wriggling a knife in the jam and giving it a quick stir before pouring some out and scraping it roughly on the toast. "Not having a good morning."

Max's hurt retreated a little. He really did look as if it had been a rough night, an especially rough one after several rough ones in a row. _What did you just tell yourself — it's not about you? _she chided herself. _So get your head in the game. He's just going to be a tougher challenge than you'd originally thought._ "I'm sorry to hear that," she offered, hoping he could tell that she meant it. As she watched, he lifted a glass of water from the counter and dug, with his free hand, into his shirt pocket. With a quick, guilty glance toward her, he palmed a handful of pills and hastily popped them in his mouth, gulping them down silently. She wondered which pain – the physical or emotional – wore on him more. _Wouldn't an evening away from here, in a place like Crash, be a welcome change?_ "Sounds like you need a break, Logan," she tried again.

He poured both of them some coffee and raised one eyebrow. "Is this an egg joke?"

She decided to take it as an olive branch, this offering of humor, and with it, an opening to broach her plan. _Nice and easy, Max_, she breathed. Leaning back on one hand at the counter's edge, swinging her foot idly, she went for casual. "Noooo, this is where I ask if you'll go out with me tonight."

He licked his lips, looked surprised – then nervous. "Out?"

"Yep." _Was the nervousness for himself? Or the thought of them going 'out'– __**together**?_ She kicked herself mentally to remember this was about him, not her…

"You're serious? With the workload I have?" He finished his water, put the plate in his lap, and rolled briskly to the office, leaving her in the kitchen, on the counter, trying to read his reply. _Who are you mad at this time, Logan?_ she wondered. _You or me?_

Her eyes fell on the two, steaming cups of instant he'd left behind, and decided to take them as a sign he intended her to follow. _You're going to have to do better than that, Logan_, she smirked silently. She hopped off the counter and turned to follow him, a mug of coffee in each hand. She placed his on the desk and leaned against one of the filing cabinets, sniffing her coffee tentatively.

"You even have better instant than I do. That _so_ isn't fair." _That will piss him off, telling him that he ought to be happy with this mud-in-a-cup._ She waited for him to rise to the bait. He reacted; he even laughed and with it, looked as if he relaxed a little. _First round to me,_ Max congratulated herself — and waited for his response.

"That's the way the cookie crumbles," he quipped, moving his graceful hands like music over the keyboard in front of him, bringing his beloved computer array to life.

"You've got _cookies_?" she grinned. _Keep him chuckling, Max_, she counseled…

He sighed. "I might. Check the usual jar."

She showed him a grin but it dropped a little as she went back into the kitchen. His long-suffering sigh told her that his better mood hadn't lasted long. She grabbed two cookies, hoping to bribe him with one of them, and went in to offer, "Want one?" He eyed the chocolate chip treat, but then shook his head and chewed on his cold toast. _Almost as a penance_, she thought absently. _But for what, this time? Still Nathan Herrero?_ She shrugged. "Your loss."

"No doubt."

They lapsed into silence, broken periodically by the tapping of keys and the munching of cookies. Logan sipped his coffee; Max decided to wait for the barely better stuff she could get at work and left hers on the desk. She waited to say anything else until he leaned in toward the monitor, looking as if he was getting drawn in by the data in front of him. She glanced at her watch and decided she didn't have that much time left to cajole him into agreeing…

"So, whatdya say? About tonight?" Max tried. She tried not to flinch as she saw him tense again and roll his eyes.

"Max, did I _mention_ that I have a lot of work to do?" There was that look again, the one he used on her when he was pulling his 'responsible adult' routine. _Did he just do that to make me feel like some punk kid – to remind me how much younger I am? Someday, Logan, I'll wake you up to the real, about just how quick a 'punk kid' has to grow up when she's on her own at nine…_

She would not be deterred. "All work, no play makes Eyes Only a dull pair of eyes. C'mon, Logan – come to Crash tonight."

He blinked up at her, surprised, then snorted. "Yeah. Right." He turned back to his work, smirking a little.

_Don't worry about what he's smirking at, Max, keep your head down and stay with it…_

"Seriously. You've been cooped up here so long without getting away from things you're turning as grey as you look in that monitor light." She lifted one of his hands just inches from his nose for effect, letting the bluish tint of the monitor light bounce off his pale skin. "You need to get out, come have a beer with us. _Relax_."

Logan pulled his hand from her grasp and after a moment's waver, looked back the plate at his side and grabbed the other piece of toast, which now had to be stone cold and even less palatable that it had been before. He feigned delicate interest in the congealed jam, took a slow bite and chewed, clearly stalling. _Coming up with some lame excuse? Maybe it's a hopeful sign that he doesn't just refuse, outright_…

He sighed. "Max, I can find my own relaxation. And it's not too likely that I'll find it in a noisy, messenger-filled bar that has videos playing nonstop of fiery, gory automobile crashes as its main entertainment."

"Most of them _aren't_ gory," she reasoned. When the only response she got was a skeptical grunt as he turned back to the monitor and started a new search of the data he'd patched together to seek his mentor's killer, she watched him silently for a few moments, then tried another tack. _There's a surprise, not worried about his own sanity. Okay, Max, let's go for broke and for God's sake don't take it personally, however he responds…_ "If not for you, then do it for me. You're moping around here, not sure if you're madder at Herrero for being human, or at yourself, for guilting him back aboveground. It's pretty grim around here, waiting for the old Logan to come back."

That stopped Logan's movements. "Well, I'm sorry that a man's death has you bummed out," he said, tightly.

"If it was just his death that had you 'bummed out' I'd leave you alone," she pressed, words coming now without plan — coming from her concern, deeper, she realized, than she'd thought. "But it's not. I think if you got out and got some fresh air you'd see that." She wavered, and finally added, her voice softer now, concern threaded through the sound of it. "It wasn't your fault, Logan."

He sat, unmoving, staring at the screen before him for more long moments, silently, before drawing a breath to speak. "Fresh air," he echoed, quietly. Finally, he turned to look back up at her. "In Crash?" He sounded dubious.

"It's a start."

Glancing away, he seemed to mull it all over again. He then turned, looking to her more directly than he had all morning, and spoke in what sounded like a confession. "Max, if I hadn't known Nathan Herrero, hadn't seen him take on _everyone_, no matter how powerful or protected, I would never have thought that a project like Eyes Only would ever have a chance at making any difference." Heavily, his eyes fell, seeing the past, clearly remembering things that had greatly affected him. "I wouldn't have even tried it, without his example. He taught me that it only takes one man, as long as you were patient, tenacious and believed it was possible." Logan sighed, glancing back again at Max. "The idea that Nathan Herrero would just... drop out, as he did..." He paused again, guiltily. "And he didn't live long enough, once I learned the truth, for me to tell him how glad I was that he hadn't died after all."

Max considered his words, finally nodding, wondering if she could say anything that could make a difference. "I thought it was something like that." She shifted her weight, lifted her 'coffee' for a small sip, almost as if it was a way to connect, and challenged softly, "What happened to the tough guy who said 'I've never been much for trying to figure out why bad things happen. I just know they do.'?"

He wavered, then, dispirited, said, "Not so tough?" As if confessing his failure this time, he added, "the bad things aren't usually my doing, Max."

"'So, the job's trying to figure out how to deal with the consequences'," she quoted again. "Beating yourself up won't bring him back, and Alena was _good_, if she had us both so convinced that she missed her father." She looked at him, wondering if she could get though. "Don't take the rap for this, Logan. For any of it, even if you were used for the murder. You couldn't have known what was coming. And about Herrero." Max saw Logan tense at that, but went on, "If he ever had the passions you said he did, he'll know exactly why you were upset with his dropping out. He probably made the same speeches you must have made to him, back in the day."

Logan looked back up to Max, as if seeking answers, maybe even absolution, before breaking his gaze and staring back at the monitor again, for long, silent moments. Finally, she saw his shoulders relax again, just a little, and in another moment he said, a new, wry tone in his voice, "Won't it be awkward for you, if I just show up there, at Crash?"

_Awkward? _She looked surprised. "No. Why? And if you come with me, anyway..."

His eyebrows lifted. "You wanted me to -" He stopped, starting again. "You wanted _me_ to come with _you_ -" He blinked a little, and added, "But your friends would know, then, that we know each other."

"Well, yeah, of course. Cindy knows already, anyway." She was confused by his confusion, until that little voice implanted in her so long ago prodded, _'bad enough that Eligible Rich Boy Logan Cale would lower himself to show up at Crash. Someone might get the wrong idea and think he might be interested in you, and then how would he extricate himself from that without endangering your willingness to do Eyes Only's bidding?'_ Peeling her emotions back off her sleeve, she shrugged and glanced away, all tough guy herself now, and started to offer, "Hey, look, if you're afraid they'll think we have 'that kind of a relationship' and you don't want -"

"Max..." She looked back to him at his interruption, seeing something new in his eyes as her defenses were still sparking, scrambling to protect her, and he shook his head. "Nothing like that. I - I just – "

_Why is he stammering?_

"These are _your_ friends, Max, your hang-out," he continued. "I didn't want to show up and make things..." He shrugged, looking uncertain – _not a typical look at all for Logan Cale_, she found herself thinking….

…and even if she didn't understand all of it, Max felt the certainty that whatever it was, this was more about his own demons than any distaste for her. _Oh, Logan, are we ever going to figure each other out? _she wondered, as she felt herself relax and with that, her smile softened to assure him, "you'll make things _interesting. _For _me_, anyway. And we sure could use it there." Seeing his own expression clear a bit at her response, she said, "So, whatdya say? When should I come get you?" He still looked a bit skeptical; she decided he needed a nudge. "I usually get there by nine, when things are starting to warm up a little. How about then?"

"How about I meet you at Crash at nine?"

Her eyebrows rose. "_Meet_ me?"

"Yeah. I have a few appointments before I can break away. No reason why you have to be late on my account -" His voice was vague… hiding something. _Is he going to try to squeak out of this by claiming at the last minute that something came up?_ She grinned.

"Oh, no." Max drained her coffee, barely tasting it now. "No, you don't get off that easily."

He looked up at her over the top of his glasses again. "Excuse me?" _Caught._ She saw it on his face…

"I'll meet you _here_ at eight forty-five and follow you to Crash." She smirked at him, feeling flushed with success. "You do know you can get in by the back door, right? Where the shipments are delivered?"

"I recall that from the last time I was there," Logan said, licking his lips again.

"Yeah, right." _Then why so relieved when I said that, Logan?_ She pushed away from the desk and paused at the open divider, buoyed by her successful attack on his perimeter defenses. "See you at eight forty-five." She turned to stroll smugly back out toward his door, aware of his eyes following her. _Mission accomplished, Max, and no hostages taken. This will be good for him, to get him out of here for the night, a little beer, a little pool, no big deal._

_No Big Deal._

…and certainly nothing, _nothing,_ to make her tummy flip, as it was flipping at the moment…

_**...to be continued... Next up: Normal! **_


	7. Normal, by Lisa0316

**Under Normal Working Conditions**

By lisa0316

**"One of the symptoms of an approaching nervous breakdown is the belief that one's work is terribly important." **

**-Bertrand Russell**

**xXx**

Reagan Ronald arrived at work twenty minutes early, as usual. He opened the doors, turned on the lights, checked the messages that had been left during the night, and waited for the slackers and degenerates who worked for him to show up. He often wondered why he bothered coming in early every morning, since every single one of his no-good employees wandered in late. Sometimes he daydreamed about all of his riders showing up early: sober, alert and eager to work. Of course, he reflected sourly, the day that happens will be the day Jesus calls him home, because the world will surely be ending. He was lucky if those lazy bums ever wandered in on time, 'early' was just a pipe dream.

Reagan Ronald was used to hard work; early starts were his routine and long hours didn't bother him. His strong work ethic had allowed him to complete his biochemistry degree in only three years. His fellow Harvard students may have given him a hard time about his nerdy social status, but they clamored to get into his study groups and desperately tried anything they could to get their hands on his detailed lab notes and well prepared outlines. A younger Reagan eventually built a small business selling photocopies of his notes to students who hadn't gone to lectures and charging admission to his study sessions, giving himself much needed spending cash during his undergraduate years.

His efficient, systematic approach to life had served him well when he wrote his master's thesis on classical paradigms in molecular medicine; he left the graduate program at the top of his class and immediately began his Ph.D. in Molecular Pharmacology. He had decided to pursue post graduate studies instead of enrolling in the med school, choosing pure science in a sterile lab over the infected, complaining hordes he wouldn't be able to avoid as a physician. If the Pulse hadn't hit during his doctorate studies, drying up his scholarship funds and bankrupting almost every financial institution in the country, he would have been a star in his field. All because he knew how to stick to it and get the job done.

He missed Harvard. He always thought the people there had morals, unlike the West Coast Gomorrah he had settled down in. But a pharmaceutical company in Seattle had been the only place to offer him a position after he was forced to leave school due to lack of tuition money. He had taken the job as a research assistant, but the facility had closed down after only two years, leaving him overqualified and unemployed, with no means to continue his education and no desire to return to the sleepy little farm town in Iowa where he grew up. It turned out there was very little demand for theoretical biomolecular scientists in the Post-Pulse economy. Go figure.

So there he was, managing a bike messenger service staffed by moronic reprobates. He knew it wasn't the most fitting job for a man of his talents, but it was a job. Everyone had to work somewhere, didn't they?

The riders intrigued him, at least from an anthropological point of view. On a personal level, he felt like he was drowning in a sea of the witless. Their ignorance and shiftlessness never ceased to amaze him. Talking with them was about as intellectually stimulating as playing tic-tac-toe, which he suspected was more of a challenge than most of their minute little brains could handle, but observing them was morbidly fascinating and strangely satisfying to him.

He watched as the riders slowly filtered into work, noticing with well concealed amusement how one of the male riders was doggedly trying to talk to one of the female riders, who slammed her locker door dangerously close to his hand. He had scornfully monitored their sordid mating ritual all week, and he concluded that she had finally given up what little was left of her virtue, and now he was paying the price_. That's what you get for sticking your pen in the company ink, fella._

He continued to observe their antics out of the corner of his eye while he sorted packages. It may have seemed haphazard to the casual observer, but he had spent months devising a system that allowed for maximum efficiency. It was too bad that none of the other half-wits that worked there could understand it. He had long ago decided that they were too brain dead to grasp the basic economic principle that time was money.

"Hey, Normal," Sketchy said as he leaned against the counter. Normal inwardly rolled his eyes heavenward every time they addressed him by that ridiculous nickname. 'Normal' compared to them, maybe. He supposed it was some sort of badge of honor among _their_ kind, but he did have a _real_ name, and it wouldn't kill them to use it every now and then.

Sketchy was a classic example of the type of employee that Normal found both curious and terrifying. He often wondered how someone who had obviously undergone a partial lobotomy managed to ride a bicycle and hold a clipboard. Sketchy was definitely a few crayons shy of a full box. Normal grunted a greeting without wasting words and pulled a parcel from the shelf. "Take this to King Street and Second,"

"No way, man," said Sketchy, holding up his hands as if warding off the devil and taking a step back. "There's a turf war going on down there. They shoot anybody that crosses Yesler."

"You're skinny enough, there's a good chance they'll miss you," Normal suggested.

"Forget it, Normal. There's not enough money in the world to make me do that." Normal decided that was the dumbest thing Sketchy had ever said, and that imbecile came up with some humdingers.

"Fine," Normal conceded, knowing that arguing about it would just be a waste of time. Max would take it. The one thing he liked about Max was her complete disregard for personal safety; it was good for business. It made him less willing to fire her for her constant absenteeism and shenanigans and unstable tendencies. "Where the fire truck is Max?" he bellowed.

"Oh, uh, Max is gonna be a little late today," Sketchy piped in. "I heard that her grandmother died last night. She's on a real bummer in deep mourning."

"Again? What is that, five times now?"

"There are many branches on her family tree, Normal."

"That's idiotic, even for you. Go away. Here, 341 Seneca, 633 Pine, 891 Pike. Be gone. Bip!" he ordered while piling a tall stack of packages onto Sketchy's outstretched arms.

Normal immediately dismissed Sketchy from his thoughts while he answered an incoming call and sent another rider out to make a pick up in South Market. Then he wasted precious time and his breath giving a lecture about ethics to the deficient sloths who had time to lean against his counter when they should be working before sending them all away with deliveries and threats of unemployment.

And there was still no sign of that lazy, good for nothing Max. As Normal poured coffee into a Styrofoam cup, he thought about Max some more. She was a bad egg, no doubt about it. Normal knew she had no respect for authority; she was cynical, short-tempered, and violent. If it weren't for the fact that she was the best rider at Jam Pony, he would have fired her long ago. Normal didn't like her, but she got the job done. When she showed up.

He picked Herbal out of a group of stragglers. Normal didn't even need to look up, he could identify Herbal by that strange, awful smell that always seemed to cling to him. It smelled sort of like rancid oregano, so he figured the man must live over a pizza parlor or something. In fact, it was such a strong odor that the other riders picked it up after spending too much time in the break room with Herbal.

"Is there a good reason your cohort Max isn't here yet?"

"Ya, boss. I and I happen to know dat Max is fenk sick wid da influenza, Jah help 'er, an' she knew the wisdom of sittin' out the day so as not to vex her fellow bredrin and siststen wid her ills. She a soon come when she feel bedda."

Normal took a moment to filter through the gibberish that spewed out of Herbal's mouth. He had managed to understand the words 'Max' and 'sick'. Well that was nonsense; Max was as healthy as they come. If a bug ever bit her, she would probably bite back. Normal wondered why he bothered asking in the first place as he piled parcels onto his rider and sent him off.

"Come back with signatures or don't come back at all!" he shouted after the departing figure. He had to stick to these dunderheads like glue sometimes.

Normal surveyed the riders, looking for the one person who might know Max's actual whereabouts. He spotted Original Cindy filing her nails and called her over. Normal grudgingly admitted that Cindy wasn't a bad sort. She was going to burn in eternal, fiery hell for her deviancy, but otherwise, she was a good kid. Normal believed she actually had a working brain somewhere under that crazy hair. He didn't like her or anything, but he judged her to be slightly more tolerable that the rest of them.

"You! When your no account friend Max shows up, tell her she's fired."

"She's got a real good excuse for being late, Normal," Cindy explained.

"What is it this time? And don't pull that 'female troubles' line on me again; I'm not buying it anymore."

"She just called a couple of minutes ago," she said, indicating towards the payphone near their lockers. "Her bike got ripped off this morning."

Normal looked up just in time to see Max ride her bike down the ramp.

"Looks like she got it back though," Cindy quickly amended.

Normal stopped to glare at Cindy just long enough to prove to her that he was on to her little tricks before turning on Max.

"You are thirty minutes late, little miss! Turn your tardy keister around and take this package to King and Second! Let's go! Double time! Bip, bip, bip!" Normal yelled as he threw the package at her. She caught with casual ease and continued to walk towards her locker.

"I just have to change, Normal."

" 'Change.'Change your attitude, girlie! Two minutes! That package is scooting to its destination in two minutes or you can pedal your way straight to the unemployment office!"

"Promises, promises," Max muttered with a dismissive wave of her hand as she walked back towards her locker, followed by Original Cindy.

"Where you been, Boo?" he heard Cindy ask. Normal's ears perked up. He might finally get an honest answer to Max's whereabouts and the reason she was always late. Normal wandered out of his little booth and meandered around as if he had no real destination. He stationed himself at the end of the row of lockers, just out of their line of vision and turned the sound off in his headset. He pretended to stare at his clipboard as he shamelessly eavesdropped on their conversation.

"Went over to Logan's." Normal wondered if that was the same man who had come sniffing around after Max a few months back and had come looking for her again a few weeks ago. He had felt a slight twinge of conscience at selling Max's address to a stranger, but he quickly got over it. It was a free market, and information was a valuable commodity. Besides, he had warned the guy about her sociopath tendencies. No reason to feel guilty.

"Did you ask him about Crash?" _That stupid bike messenger bar._ _These slackers obviously don't work hard enough during the day if they have the energy to play all night long. Worthless miscreants._

"Yeah, I asked him."

"Were you sweet to him about it?" _Right, like Max ever does anything sweet. All spice and no sugar, that one. Still, got to admit she's easy on the eyes..._

"Yes."

"And? What'd he say?" _She's getting relationship advice from the Nubian princess? Right…That'll work.  
_

"He said he'd meet me there at nine." _Run for the hills, buddy. You'd be safer…_

"He'd meet you there? That means he's gonna bail on you last minute, don't it?" _If he's smart…_

"Yep. That's why I told him I'd meet him at his house at 8:45."

"Smart girl." _Max being devious- what a shock. I may die._

"You're gonna be there, right? It'd be good to have friendly faces around, you know?"

"Relax, Sugar. I'll get the party people to come out, and you know Original Cindy'll be around, dressed to kill, getting her drink on, and scoping out all the fine females." Normal felt slightly sick at _that_ mental image and decided to walk away from the conversation before he learned more than he wanted to know.

He returned to his little booth in a reflective mood. It sounded like Max was serious about a guy. Well, maybe a good man could straighten her out, help her work out some of her aggressions. Normal wondered if this new fellow was the reason she always grabbed the runs in the financial district. He knew those kids thought he was stupid, but it wasn't hard to figure out their little games. He considered setting packages bound for that sector aside so Max would have an excuse to head in that direction more often. Then he reminded himself that he wasn't a pimp and Max could figure out her pitiful excuse for a love life on her own time.

He knew he had been working at Jam Pony too long; the cretins were starting to rub off on him. Normal had to be careful not to get too caught up in the antics of the riders. It didn't get the work done, and if he didn't stay on top of these losers, they would _all_ be out of jobs. He got back to business, taking calls, dispatching packages, answering customer service complaints, and wondering if stupidity could be contracted through osmosis.

_Thanks for reading._

_Next week…more of BlueAngel's Logan! _

_Reviews are appreciated._


	8. Zack 2, by BlueAngel137

A/N: "Just in case" anybody got confused because our story popped up midweek on FFN. SORRY! And NO you don't have a wrong calendar ;): We did a minor modification in the last chapter (which has now been changed back into the original status again) and FFN sent out alerts.

DA still belongs to someone else.

This is the second part of Zack's POV.

Hope you enjoy!

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"**Just In Case"**

(written by BlueAngel137, beta-ed by Shywr1ter)

xxx

Anyone can become angry - that is easy, but to be angry with the right person at the right time, and for the right purpose and in the right way - that is not within everyone's power and that is not easy."

(_Aristotle, Greek philosopher, 384 BC -322 BC_)

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_Odessa (Washington)_

Zack left the "Odessa 8 Motel" at 7:30 in the morning, again carefully erasing all signs of his presence. He didn't want to arouse any impression of urgency and tried to act as unobtrusive as possible. He even took the time to stop off in "Kate's Diner", a small restaurant on the main street, with white curtains and dark brown furniture that would have fitted perfectly into any late 60's road movie.

A soft jingle announced his arrival, drawing some curious glances from the few locals who were scattered about the room, either looking up from newspapers or stopping their exchange of daily gossip to attentively scrutinize the stranger. The middle aged, brunette waitress instantly tried to drag him into a conversation, asking with a wide smile on her round face where he came from. Fortunately Zack had gotten his first "Evasion Technique" lessons at the age of seven and therefore managed to escape her eager claws with one of his rare smiles and a few politely mumbled words without giving away the slightest bit of information.

Zack crossed the room. He aimed for a small table, just a few feet from the backdoor, which didn't look like it could block any attack … _just in case_ … and after a quick glance at the crumpled menu he decided for a cup of coffee and fried eggs, served with hash browns and "golden" toast, as the menu promised enticingly.

Ignoring several new, half-hearted tries to engage him into a conversation, he just ate his breakfast, astounded that even the coffee tasted exceptionally good. Riding his motorcycle was fun and the fastest way to cross the country, but it was never good to march on an empty stomach and well, he needed to be prepared … _just in case_ …

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_8 hours later_

Looking from a distance at downtown Seattle, the "Emerald City" still seemed imposing, its huge skyscrapers creating a great contrast to the Cascade Mountains with the snow covered peak of Mt. Rainier in the south-east and Puget Sound in the west. But the once most important metropolis of the northwest, which had owed its rapid development to computer and high-tech industry, had lost a lot of its sparkle and when you got closer, you could see the filth and debris piling up in the corners and depressing signs of decay everywhere.

_Damn city, seems to be __nothing but sector checkpoints_, Zack thought grimly, once again slowed down by a long line of vehicles. Time mutated to an insolvable issue. It sat at the back of his neck … whispered into his ears, told him he had to hurry … and still, there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it, and it was driving him insane.

Impatience was gnawing at him.

_Why did Max choose Seattle, for god's sake? _Anger flashed up in his blue eyes, the only part of his face visible under his black helmet, as he had opened the visor. _At least there was an advantage in Seattle's proximity to Canada's border, _he admitted grumpily to himself.

His approach to the checkpoint was achingly slow. At least with the street's slight grade, he was able to save some precious gas. It was always hard enough to collect the amount of gas he needed, and he would have hated to waste it like this.

Every muscle of his body itched to get moving, and when Zack finally reached the checkpoint after half an hour of waiting, he had to use all his training to keep a calm appearance. He passed the checkpoint without problems, once again silently thanking his faked VIP passport. Zack dared to accelerate his Ducati only after he rounded the next corner.

The short rush of speed was exhilarating. It required his full concentration and therefore left no room for wildly spinning thoughts, creating worst case scenarios. Zack had spent half a day wondering what he was going to find waiting for him in Seattle. He'd never thought he was even able to feel "mission creep", yet the thought of Max being surrounded by Lydecker's men had pushed him to the edge of sanity, or insanity for that matter.

Being occupied with driving very fast through Seattle's back alleys kept his thoughts from wandering … **for exactly 45 seconds** ... By then his mind had adapted to the new situation, and his ability to multitask let the next cloud of dark thoughts wind through his brain.

The world lost its color.

_How could she dare__ have her barcode number exposed_, Zack thought, a hot wave of anger cursing through him. _She should have left town months ago. She was always one of the best at Escape and Evade … damn … I thought she had been trained better than that. _

Adrenalin surged through his body. He was approaching Max's neighborhood in sector 5 now, driving a zigzag course, while he slowed his bike down to an appropriate speed, fully aware of how out of place he had to look with his shiny, black Ducati and big helmet in such run-down surroundings.

His eyes narrowed, brows drawn together in concentration, Zack carefully scanned the area. Everything seemed calm and normal. The battered apartment building, where Max lived, loomed into a perfectly blue afternoon sky, without signs of anything being out of the ordinary. An elderly couple made their way along the sidewalk, carefully avoiding the cracks and holes in the pavement. Some children played with dented toy cars beside a big heap of debris, and a group of teenagers lingered in front of the entrance, smoking, and laughing about a story one of them was telling.

Zack released the breath he hadn't even known he was holding. The tension he'd felt only seconds ago vanished gradually, but his senses stayed on alert. The absence of black SUVs was a good thing, yet there was still the possibility of hidden surveillance and he wasn't going to take chances.

A thorough sweep of the area and the apartment building revealed no hint of immediate danger. He didn't find young guys disguised as electricians or short haired thirty-somethings sitting in their cars on the roadside, smelling of military. For a couple of seconds he was unsure what to do next. All of his thoughts had been directed toward getting to Max's apartment building as fast as possible and now, as the adrenalin in his body had dropped to a normal level, he realized he hadn't even made a plan.

He narrowed his eyes in self-directed anger. _What were you thinking?_

_You always need a well thought out plan that's executed with precision_, Lydecker's rough voice told him sternly, but before the voice of his former commander was able add anything more, it was interrupted by a 9-year-old Max, telling him he should decide as he went along. A ghost of a smile touched her lips, dark eyes flashing in silent challenge. And not having much choice, that's what he did.

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_Rooftop across Max's apartment in sector 5, some hours later_

The view from his vantage point was calming. The sun had set about two hours ago, dipping the town into darkness, hiding all the dirt on the streets. Eight stories below, on the next corner, some dark figures had gathered around an oil-drum bonfire, shreds of rough laughter reaching Zack's sensitive ears from time to time. He was even able to see the silvery-black ripples of Puget Sound in the far distance, reflecting the lights of the city.

Coldness was slowly seeping in, but he ignored it.

He'd seen Max … twice … still as exotic and beautiful as he'd remembered her. She'd approached the building on her bike, using almost the same zigzag course he had chosen just a few hours ago. _Maybe she hasn't forgotten all of her training_, Zack had thought, instinctively filing away every bit of information he got from her, stowing it into his inexhaustible memory; the black baseball cap that partly hid her expressive, dark eyes, the black and red badge on her chest with her photo and the "Jam Pony Xpress" logo, the gray green jacket.

He'd watched her every move, until she'd vanished with catlike grace inside the building, throwing a last cautious glance over her shoulder.

Max had left again only an hour later on a black Kawasaki Ninja. _Nice taste_, Zack had admitted to himself. A small smile played around his lips as he zoomed in on her face and recognized the look of satisfaction that crossed her features as she started the engine. But within some seconds she had been gone again, leaving him on the windy rooftop where he settled for a long night, melting with the shadows.

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_Next__ evening_

Zack had been extremely cautious. He'd slept for a few hours during the day in the apartment he'd found in Chinatown, and he'd been at a Chinese tattoo parlor to get his barcode removed. It seemed like a necessary thing to do, yet, the back of his neck still burned like fire, protesting against the abuse. And the concealer he had applied to hide the red spot, didn't exactly help to ease the pain. But he'd live … and it was always better to be safe than sorry … _just in case._

Zack still had absolutely no idea where Lydecker hid his base in Seattle and what he was up to when he followed Max through the broken city on Friday evening. It wasn't easy to keep on Max's tail.

She was good.

She knew the city like the back of her hand and deliberately used that knowledge. There was always a narrow alley on her way, a bridge or a sewer tunnel, and Zack needed all his highly developed tracking skills to follow her without being spotted.

Max even seemed to know which checkpoint to use at which time of the day. And when she approached the checkpoint she just smiled at the sector cops, waved her Jam Pony badge and yelled from the end of the line: "Jam pony messenger, urgent delivery! Can I go through?" And in most cases the enraptured men just waved her through without further inquiry.

Who could blame them?

And with a confusing mixture of surprise and unease Zack realized: the longer he observed Max, the more he wanted to know about her. She had friends, had connected with others and as often as he told himself that it was wrong, he couldn't help the bitter taste of envy that ran down his throat.

He'd followed her to the messenger service, Jam Pony, had seen from a safe distance how easily she got along with her colleagues, and how much she seemed to enjoy the banter with her friends. She'd just drop a witty remark on one of the guys, preferably the one with the pale face and greasy hair who was called Sketchy, while her face was deadly serious. But finally her eyes would light up. The corners of her mouth would lift into that sassy grin and she'd laugh about the confused glance the guy was giving her when he struggled for a fitting reply, not sure whether Max was serious or not.

Zack knew there might come a day when Lydecker swept into her life and tried to use those connections against her. Emotions were phony sentimentality. They were still soldiers, hiding on enemy territory, but even he had his weak moments when the loneliness suddenly seemed a heavy burden to bear, and he just longed for company.

However, on this Friday evening Max rode on her Ninja straight to the next checkpoint. She just stayed on the big main roads, and Zack was able to follow her to the high rise district in sector nine. She did a few deceiving moves to shake off any potential pursuer when she approached her target area, and he was only lucky that he saw a glimpse of her as she stopped her bike beside the entrance of the underground garage of a modern high-rise building.

_What was Max doing in such an upscale area?_

Zack braced, coming to a stop before he rounded the next corner and zoomed in to look at her.

Max looked nervous. She straightened her leather jacket, removed non-existent crinkles and then retrieved something from her jacket pocket, while her left hand combed through her wavy hair. She applied lip balm to her beautiful full lips and then smiled tentatively.

_She's going on a date_, Zack realized with a deep frown.

He wasn't prepared for the lump that suddenly formed in his throat, hadn't expected the pain that raced through the core of his being. Every muscle of his strong, well toned body tensed. _Breathe!_ He ordered himself, glad he had the black helmet on that shielded his face from curious eyes, glad his feelings were well hidden.

_Emotions are nothing but weakness_, he told himself again in a silent mantra, while his eyes wandered over the unusually clean surrounding. He was running on autopilot. Every floor of the huge building got scrutinized by his sharp eyes.

Suddenly the door of the underground garage opened with a creaking noise, and Max vanished inside. For a moment Zack contemplated leaving. Every cell of his brain told him he had to go. It was one thing to watch out for his siblings but a part of him felt like he was intruding on Max's privacy. It just didn't feel right.

A silent battle raged inside him until the soldier finally got the upper hand.

_You came all the way to Seattle to protect Max. She's in danger and you know it. Who knows what she's doing here. It might be a trap for all you know._

And with a heavy sigh Zack's decision was sealed. He was going to wait. He had to make sure Max was safe … _just in case_.

TBC

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**Reviews greatly appreciated!**

**Next Friday: "Stepping Out" by Lilmouse (warning: AURLCO pre-approved, contains half-nekkid Logan ;)) **


	9. Logan 3, by lilmouse

The Crash Challenge: Logan's POV 3 

**Stepping Out**

**By lilmouse**

"_**I seldom end up where I wanted to go, but almost always end up where I need to be."**_

_- Douglas Adams, British Comic Writer, 1952 – 2001_

At eleven forty-five, Logan Cale had another cup of instant coffee, revised his agenda for the next few days and contemplated the coward's way out of his evening commitment. He quickly dismissed canceling as an option. It wasn't his style, no matter how much his common sense was trying to slap him into realizing that going to Crash was a Bad Idea. He couldn't think of an excuse that wouldn't make him feel guilty or lessen his standing in Max's eyes.

Besides, it could be fun.

_Yeah. Right._

He sighed, shook his head and buried himself with Eyes Only work to keep himself distracted.

At one o'clock, he allowed his rumbling stomach to drag him away from the computer for two pieces of toast and peanut butter this time instead of jam, just for variety. He passed on the instant coffee and settled for water to keep hydrated. He could hear Bling's voice in his head, nagging him for his own good.

_Wheel away from the screen, do your stretches, drink plenty of fluids -_

He soon returned to his desk and followed a new lead on a smuggling ring that had been eluding him for several months. The hours ticked by. He drafted the script for an Eyes Only broadcast, contacted a source who had seen something noteworthy on the docks, chuckled at the folly of a politician who thought his firewall could stop Justice, and made a grocery list. All in all, a productive day.

At six o'clock, Logan put his crusade on hold again, long enough to find the piece of grilled chicken he remembered was at the back of his fridge in a Tupperware container: _ah, protein_. He ate an apple as well, did a few more stretches then returned to the computer.

At ten to seven, he decided to have a shower. Max said she'd be stopping by at nine-ish, or that's what he thought they'd agreed upon. He'd still been a little rattled by the whole concept of going to Crash that some of the details like timing eluded him. He tossed his glasses onto his bedside table, stripped and wheeled into the bathroom. As he ran the water he wondered, not for the first time, why he'd agreed to go to Crash. What had compelled him to say 'yes'? Was it the look of challenge in Max's eyes? Was it the idea of going on a - _dare he call it?_ - a _date_ with her? Was it the realization that he really didn't 'unplug' enough and, dear God, maybe she was _right_?

_Reminder for that Eyes Only mission: get a life._

The hot water felt amazing, soothing his tense muscles and calming his mind. He stretched and flexed and scrubbed until he was slightly pink. A part of him wished his supply was bottomless but he switched off the water before it started to cool and returned to the wheelchair. He briefly toweled his hair, shaved, brushed his teeth and flossed thoroughly, and wheeled to the bedroom. Locking the brakes, he transferred to the bed, pulling on clean boxers and pants without rushing. He chose a deep blue shirt and set it beside him, along with a pair of socks. After a few minutes slipped by and he still hadn't moved, he came to a realization.

_God, I'm tired -_

He squinted at the digital clock on his bedside table and considered his options. It was seven-fifteen so he had plenty of time. He lay back on the bed and sighed. He'd been in front of the computer most of the day and his eating habits hadn't been up to his usual standard. Distracted was one thing. No food in the apartment was another matter entirely. It was his own damn fault, of course, and now he had to deal with Crash and all those people and _Max_ -

_Probably should've taken a break and gone to the market, _he thought sleepily._ Tomorrow._

Logan closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out again slowly. Images of Max smiling, laughing and raiding his fridge made him smile.

When he started to doze, it was eighteen minutes past seven.

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"Lo-gan?"

The voice was quiet, gentle, and coming from very close by. He sighed. It sounded like Max, beautiful Max. He was obviously still dreaming. Max didn't live here -

"Logan? Are you okay?"

He pushed his arms lazily above his head and stretched. The soft cotton sheets felt wonderful against his skin -

_His bare skin._

He opened his eyes and turned his head and stared into the face of his angel. She was kneeling beside the bed, her eyes large, and an odd smile on her face. He was reminded of the Mona Lisa. "Hey," she said softly.

Logan swallowed. "Hey," he managed, and cleared his throat. "What time is it?"

"Eight-forty."

"You're early."

"And _you_ were asleep." Her smile became an all-out grin. "You aren't gonna go to Crash dressed like _this_, are you?" she teased.

"Um, no." Logan wondered how long she'd been kneeling there, watching him sleep. _Thank God I at least pulled on _some_ clothes before I passed out._ "I… thought I'd put on some socks." Max raised one eyebrow, her gaze sweeping his bare chest. She didn't seem shy about letting him know she was enjoying the view. "And a _shirt_," he continued emphatically. "Of _course_."

"Of course," she repeated and stood. "Wanna hand?"

"No, I'm fine." He sat up, ran a hand through his hair and grinned up at her. Embarrassing, yes, but he decided not to let it bother him. _Keep moving, Cale._ "I'll be out in a few minutes." He reached for the shirt he'd placed beside him before taking his unexpected nap.

"As long as you don't try to back out on me," she said over her shoulder. "I've been lookin' forward to this all day."

Logan watched her retreating form, all dark curly hair and denim and swaying hips. He closed his jaw with an audible snap and let his head fall forward. A beautiful young woman was waiting for him in his living room to be escorted to a noisy bar. He gave his head a shake, wondering at the looks Max had given him before she'd left the room. They made his mind drift into uncharted waters, waters he hadn't explored since his injury.

Waters he had no right to enter.

He grabbed his shirt and pulled it on, chastising himself.

_Great. Just great. _He pulled on one sock then the other._ I'm drowning in a metaphor_. He thought of Max's smile and pressed both his hands against his face as if he could contain his remaining sanity._ I'm doomed._

_**Next Week: Max Chapter by Shywr1ter!**_


	10. Max 3, by Shywr1ter

**Disclaimer:** No ownership; no profits.

**A/N:** Thanks to those of you sticking through with us on this project. All comments appreciated!

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**"Discovered Uncovered"**

_The Crash Challenge_, _Max POV 3, by Shywr1ter_

"The tale of love must be heard from love itself. For like a mirror it is both mute and expressive."

Jalaluddin Rumi, (1207-1273)

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From the moment she left Logan's that morning, Max hadn't given their plans a second thought — as she smugly reminded herself several times during the day. _Wonder if Logan's stewing about showing his face at Crash, _she'd thought as she came into Jam Pony to start her day. _'Bout time he comes out and see how all his fans live their lives, _she'd reflected as a delivery took her by graffiti urging her to 'stay strong in the struggle.' _I'm not even going to see if he'll find me some lunch — wouldn't want to make him more nervous about his big night_, she'd smirked, as another run brought her in sight of Fogle Towers. "You're just looking for what you want to see," she'd dismissed, when Original Cindy opined that her lack of focus that afternoon was due to her mind running ahead to the upcoming evening.

She finished work at 6:00 and went home to a dull dinner of cold cereal and milk that was nearly sour enough to toss out. _Not quite a Cale Creation, is it?_ she thought, as she nonetheless managed to down it all without too much difficulty. _Maybe I should go see if Logan has gotten himself some dinner, without me there to poke him into cooking. Especially for tonight, he ought to have a decent meal before going out…_

The thought of seeing him over his dinner table, brown-out candles softening the air around him and lending gold sparks to his oh-so-expressive eyes made her movements slow momentarily, then made her shake herself firmly. "Forget it," she growled out loud to herself, putting her bowl and spoon in the sink with a loud _clunk. _ "Tonight, Logan's in _your_ world, for a change. Let him deal."

Edgy, and uncertain why, Max glanced at the clock, ready to get moving: 6:15. _Great… _she reacted. _Nearly three hours of waiting, all just to hold Logan's hand to get him to Crash… _

Max paced to the window, looking out over the darkening city, her restlessness growing. Whatever this was, she wasn't going to stew over it here at home. _Perfect time for a ride_, she decided, turning on her heel to grab her coat and motorcycle, pushing it out the door with her.

In moments, she was on her bike and, not long after, on streets she knew to be safer from police concerns about her opening it up, felt the rush of having the wind in her face and the engine roar in her ears, helping block out all other thought. _…and anyone who wants to call this 'escapism' will have an X-5 to answer to, _she grinned to herself as she bent lower over the bars and sped off into the dusk…

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She'd been out for nearly two hours, heading to the Needle after a good twenty five minutes on her Ninja — luxury, given how hard it had been to score this tank of gas. She stopped home just long enough to get a fast shower and throw on cleaner clothes, promising herself she wasn't showering because it was a _date_ or anything, but because after a day of riding her bike for work, then an evening on her baby, Logan's delicate wealthy nostrils would probably be offended enough that he might decide to dial back on the dinner invitations, and she did _not_ like the idea of having cereal for dinner more frequently than she did now. _Only reason for the shower_, she reassured herself.

Even after stopping to primp a little — _just a way to kill some more time_, she told herself — she found herself in Logan's elevator ten minutes early. She fought the urge to go back downstairs and circle the block — _that's so lame, Max,_ she snorted inwardly — and let herself into Logan's penthouse. Just as it was on so many nights, it was hushed and soothing … but no sound of keyboard clatter met her this time.

_What? _she allowed a private grin._ Has he really pulled his nose away from that computer screen? He's actually going to go to Crash tonight?_

"Logan?" she called softly, coming back down the hall. True enough, no one was at the computer, and his Crankiness was not at his post at the large windows overlooking the city.

_Bedroom, then? Bathroom? Actually getting ready to go out?_

Not only were the sounds of the computer absent, but there was no other sound — no shower or other movement. With a slight frown she came closer to the nearly closed bedroom door and listened more carefully. In the next moment her eyebrows lifted, high, in surprise – and amusement.

_Snoring?_

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_

Carefully … silently … Max slowly pushed open the door to Logan's darkened bedroom. The light from the hall spilled into the room in a long, gentle shaft of light across the floor and up over onto the bed, playing over the lanky form of Logan Cale as he lay sprawled back, sound asleep. With his easy, deep breathing there came the gentle snoring she'd heard from the hall.

She stood in the doorway, gazing in, almost feeling as if she was on a B & E for Eyes Only, this intrusion on Logan's private sanctuary. Logan Cale, asleep, without his eyes burning in his intense, passionate pursuit of the latest evildoer, without his frown of disapproval or long-suffering sighs…

She discovered she'd been holding her breath.

Creeping in closer, she let her eyes trail down slowly over the sleeping form, napping across the foot of his large, inviting bed, just as if he'd been sitting there at the edge and was suddenly zapped with a tranquilizer dart, falling back, asleep on the spot. _Has he ever been this still?_ she wondered, _this quiet?_ Even when studying the computer files unfolding before him or lost in thought at his window, Logan exuded a sense of mission, of momentum, thoughts racing, plans hatching … wrongs being righted…

But not now. Not like this. Mesmerized by his rhythmic, slow breathing, Max slowly took in the flat, gently rising stomach, the soft brown hair curling along his chest… the newly emerging definition along his pecs and abs, the beauty of the strengthening muscles across his shoulders and chest now softened only slightly in his sleep…

_Wow…_ she reflected, eyes wide... _Have the baggy sweaters and shapeless tee shirts he's been wearing been to hide __**this?**__ This body? And who's he hiding from? From __**me?**_ she dared to wonder. _Who else would he have to hide from…?_

She gulped, prodding herself to pull her eyes away from the view. _You don't move now, you'll be rooted here when he wakes up and finds you ogling him like a pork roast… _with one last sweep of his form, she forced her eyes to move upward… and was even more surprised with what she'd missed before:

_His chin_. His bare, clean-shaven _chin_…

It was amazing, the difference. Without the stubble, he looked younger, less world-weary. Of course, it was helped by sleep, his brow cleared of worry lines, taking years off his life, the gentling of his features and smoothing of his too-often worried expression almost giving him an innocence…

_You know it's not just the chin-skin, Max, or seeing his face without the prickly blanket it usually has. It's what it __**means**__. He __**shaved**__. For this. For Crash. For… _

…_me? _Smiling at the thought, Max involuntarily reached toward the smooth, firm jawline, the handsome features. _He looks so peaceful. So different… but still — so Logan,_ she reflected, almost letting her fingers touch the newly revealed chin…

…when a new, comical hiccup in the rhythmic, oddly soothing snore brought her back to Earth.

Stifling a self-conscious snicker as she shook away the spell, unwilling to admit to herself how rattled he could leave her, Max noticed the damp towel still lying, rumpled, across his chair, and smiled a little to herself as she lifted it and moved to take it back to his bathroom, allowing it to be an excuse to take another quick look at the luxurious, immaculate bathroom suite, itself larger than some apartments she'd seen in her building. She'd peeked in once before, curious to see such luxury, but _this_ time it was still warm and scented from his shower with his soap and shampoo… In sudden recognition of the symptoms, she screwed her eyes shut and breathed, _Oh, no, Max, get your mind out of there, or he'll suck you back into his spell again. _ Turning smartly, she marched herself from one danger to the other, near again to his napping form, keeping her eyes averted for the moment, at least.

She glanced at her watch. _ 8:35._ She supposed she'd have to wake him soon, not only because they had plans, but because if Logan knew she'd been there and just … _watching_ him… well, who knows what he'd make of it.

_What __**should**__ he make of it, Max?_ she demanded mentally, as she allowed herself another peek at the blissfully oblivious man. _Isn't this just a little weird, to be checking him out like this? _Again taking in this new side of him, the peacefulness he seemed to radiate in his sleep, she found herself imagining the feel of his shoulders under her palms, his warm, clean skin under her fingertips. _His skin must taste so sweet…_ she found herself thinking…

She blinked in sudden surprise at the turn her thoughts were taking, especially after telling herself not moments before to get a grip on things. _Not Heat; definitely not Heat, _she told herself_, Wrong time and … wrong feel. Or, __**right**__ feel,_ she corrected herself, _because this feeling is… _her thoughts trailed as she looked at the sleeping figure.

She knelt slowly beside the bed, watching him sleep.

_What the hell is this, Max? Something else Manticore cooked up? Or is this just another, unwitting Cale 'culinary' miracle?_

Whatever it was, it wouldn't last, and maybe her best bet was to wake him up so this new, compelling Logan wouldn't keep pulling her in. _When he wakes up and shows me his old, pissy self, that ought to cure a lot of things. _"Logan?" she tried softly. He didn't budge. _Deep sleep, then_, she figured, and suddenly wondered if he'd been so exhausted it would be better to let him sleep, no matter their plans. _He fights sleep enough every other time…_ any chance he was coming down with something, to make him finally give in like this, clearly in the middle of getting ready to go out? She frowned slightly and tried again, "Logan? Are you okay?"

He pushed his arms lazily above his head and stretched, and the silly smile she saw as he roused, the one of sheer, lazy bliss, was so out of place on the face of the proudly intense, serious cyberjournalist, she had to stifle another snicker. She didn't let herself catch the fact that her reaction was one of relief, too.

She watched with fascination as he awoke slowly, in stages, his stretch long and slow, now easing back into full relaxation. _What must it be like to watch him sleeping, watch him waking, every day…?_

And in that moment, he opened his eyes and turned his head, staring into her eyes from only a few inches away as she knelt beside him, beside the bed. She knew she'd grinned suddenly, but couldn't help it, taken by the sight of him in this almost-awake, bleary state. "Hey," she tried, softly.

Logan swallowed. "Hey," he managed, and cleared his throat. "What time is it?"

"Twenty 'til nine." She watched as he fought to blink away the fuzziness left by his nap and tried mightily to look as if he wasn't disoriented. _What is it about Mr. Take-Charge-and-Save the-World that makes him so cute when he's 'off-duty?'_

"You're early," he pointed out.

"And _you_ were asleep," she pronounced. _Ah, see Max? Pissiness, right out of the box. Thanks for the save, Logan._ "You aren't gonna go to Crash dressed like _this_, are you?" she teased.

"Um, no. I… thought I'd put on some socks."

Max raised one eyebrow, her gaze sweeping his bare chest in a much less x-rated version of what she'd managed earlier. _What will he make of my checking him out?_ she wondered, smirking at the blush she'd raised in response.

"And a _shirt_," he continued, squirming a little, no matter how hard he tried not to. "Of course."

"Of course," she repeated and stood. "Wanna hand?"

"No, I'm fine." He sat up, ran a hand through his hair and grinned up at her. His grin was more centered now, as he seemed to be getting over his embarrassment that Eyes Only was caught napping. "I'll be out in a few minutes." He reached for the shirt laid out beside him on the bed.

She nodded and turned to leave his bedroom, calling "as long as you don't try to back out on me," over her shoulder, feeling Logan watching her as she retreated, leaving him to finishing dressing. She never entertained the idea that the last few moments had added a bounce to her step. "I've been lookin' forward to this all day." _Of course, I haven't really thought **that** much about it, _Max told herself as she went out to examine his pantry as she waited_, but he will have, and I wouldn't want him to think I don't care…_

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**Up next: our first original character of this story, _Joseph_, lovingly created and written by Mari83!  
**


	11. Joseph, by Mari83

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Dark Angel

**A/N:** Since this chapter is from the point of view of an original character, it's probably nothing for DA-purists, but next week we'll be back to the regular, loved cast.

Many thanks to the group for letting me play with my original character ideas and of course for making Writer's Pulse so much fun. A double thanks to Shywr1ter for the double-beta and to lilmouse for providing a name. All remaining mistakes are mine.

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**Old Acquaintances**

Joseph, the doorman of Fogle Towers, by Mari83

_"No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted."_

Aesop (620 BC - 560 BC)

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**Lobby of Fogle Towers, ****8:30 PM**

Joseph, Fogle Tower's doorman for proud fifty years and by now well past retirement age, smiled at the sound of Max's voice, distractedly replying her greetings without separating his eyes from the newspaper. By now he was well used to her coming and going, knew that she was welcome in the penthouse at any time of day or night. He had been told so by Mr. Cale, one morning maybe three or four months after he had been released from the hospital…

_Looking up from his __crossword puzzle, Joseph spotted Mr. Cale coming from the elevator, determinedly heading straight to his counter where he presented him with a photo of a decidedly beautiful girl, a bike messenger by her cap and clothes. Without showing any crack in his perfectly polite expression, Joseph noted the unease in the way Cale's usually steady gaze flickered away from his own friendly, inquiring eyes when he mentioned the girl's name and her new status as a permanent visitor. He might not have given it much attention had there not been this moment of strangeness in Mr. Cale's voice, an unlikely mix of softness and strained indifference that was revealing just by its overt casualness…. Taking in the other man's now neutral face, Joseph was left a bit insecure about how he should address her, unsure of the girl's position: was she an employee delivering medical supplies, simply a friend… or rather a 'special friend', a love affair? His reaction was smooth nevertheless, relying on instinct and years of experience as he gave the man in front of him a knowing nod and a smile that showed understanding, but still was discreet enough. _

_However, he seemed to have hit a nerve. __ In atypical sharpness Cale put the photo onto the counter, uttering a flat, emotionless "She's helping me with some legwork." Then he turned around briskly into the direction of the entrance, not leaving Joseph any opportunity to apologize. _

_Joseph__ hadn't meant to disgruntle him, just would have liked to what to call Mr. Cale's acquaintance… and while he had gotten a clear answer to that, the curios doorman in him, provided with lots of time to ponder about this or that, didn't quite believe it. Mr. Cale's reaction alone would have been enough to make him doubt the 'only work'--relationship. However, when he got to know the other side of things, Ms. Guevara, the question wasn't any longer whether there was something going on between them but only why they didn't act upon it. After all, he could see that special smile of anticipation on her face, visible for just a second before she replaced it with one for him that, while still nice and friendly, was something else completely, noticed with growing amusement her bouncing impatience to go up the man in the penthouse when she parked her bike behind his counter. After all he knew that often she still was up there when left for the night, or came down early in the morning, when he'd just began working._

He had always liked Mr. Cale. Among all the long-standing inhabitants of Fogle Towers, Mr. Cale was the one who most often treated him as a fellow human being, and not as 'just the doorman'. Sure, he always kept his distance, never crossed the border from exchanging generalities to sharing intimate details of his personal life, but this seemed to be just his normal attitude, more his general sense of privacy rather than a display of superiority.

Mr. Cale was never too busy for a friendly greeting, for a little chat here and there about how Joseph's wife was doing, or for hearing the latest news on his little granddaughter. From time to time they even exchanged the latest tips on the food black market, even though their motives for buying there were different. For him, like many others, it was just part of the eternal struggle to make ends meet. Mr. Cale, however, was a passionate cook whose wealth allowed him the luxury of the many items that were a rarity nowadays.

He didn't work for the family's company, but said that he spent his days as a journalist. Joseph didn't see much of his writing even though he read most of the limited offering of newspapers and journals available locally throughout his mostly uneventful days. He couldn't blame the younger man for retreating from what was had once been the free press. Even ten years after the Pulse, newspapers weren't much more than a mindless concoction of boring trivialities and the uncritical repetition of what the authorities claimed to be the truth. They still kept up their censorship, not even so much by administering their restrictive laws, but simply by the fact that the people sitting in the city council and administration were the ones who had bought up almost all publishing houses.

Joseph couldn't help but admire those articles of Cale's he did find, strewn in between the others, delicately and with great talent maneuvering around the official limits to mock the mighty. And then there were those pieces in that one-paged underground paper mysteriously showing up in train stations or at the market, in which Joseph thought he recognized Cale's style. There was the same burning intensity, the hot anger at all the unjustness of the post-Pulse world as in his signed articles, only that now they were transformed into unrestrained accusations of those in power.

_W__hen the voice coming from his little TV announced another spectacular shooting, Joseph didn't give the monitor more than a brief, barely interested glance. They had become normalcy long ago, didn't qualify as 'spectacular' to anybody but those involved and the sensation-hungry media. Then he recognized that the car was the same type as Mr. Cale's and before he had time to convince himself that it surely must be a coincidence, Joseph saw him dragging a little girl from it before seconds later collapsing on the concrete, hit by a hail of bullets. _

_Soon the news __report was replaced by the wooden acting of some cheap soap opera, but Joseph was still staring at the screen, finding himself with the irrational wish of not having seen this, as if his not turning the TV on could have had prevented things from happening._

_He had seen them all leave earlie__r that day, Mr. Cale, his friend, and that dark-haired, slender woman with her daughter who were staying with him for a few days. He had suspected her to be a friend or relative, maybe going through a rough divorce and seeking shelter from an abusive husband. It was the best explanation he could find for the jittery nervousness that made the woman jump at every sound, the fear sharpening her voice whenever the girl tried to break loose from the firm grip of her mother's hand._

_Three days __later he got a call from a nurse from Metro Medical, her professionally cool voice informing him that Mr. Cale's mail was to be delivered to them for a good while, probably several months. She wouldn't tell him anything more, claiming that he wasn't family. Of course he wasn't family or a friend… but still, their little chats had become a welcome break from his dull routine, making him see Mr. Cale more often than his own son who lived down in New Mexico. So the same day, he had called one of these biking delivery services, Sam Pony or something like that, to send a card and a box of his wife's homemade cookies._

_He learned that Mr. Cale was in a wheelchair now __from one the workmen coming one morning a few weeks later, showing him a work order allowing them to enter the Penthouse, to make it accessible._ _Later that day a muscular black guy, introducing himself as Logan's therapist, showed up to question Joseph thoroughly on the security measurements of Fogle Towers. Joseph answered him willingly, noting that there was something oddly calming about the other man even though he easily could have been intimating with all his muscles and mere size that that made Joseph overly aware of his own wiry build. Instead, the man's calm, self-confident manner emanated an aura of gentle trustworthiness, causing Joseph to ask without further thinking how Mr. Cale was doing. His question triggered a surprised yet reassuring smile on the guy's face, his deep, steady voice telling him that the patient's recovery was going fine and that he would be released soon. _

And he, Bling, had been right. When Mr. Cale came back for the first time a few weeks later to check on the progress of the modifications, he looked remarkably good for someone who had spent the last several months in the hospital. The only thing catching Joseph's eye from his seated position behind the counter, where he couldn't see the other man's wheelchair at first, was the slight paleness, a lack of color that indicated more a lack of outdoor activities than illness.

It was other things, more subtle than the man's mere physical appearance that told Joseph that Mr. Cale's mind hadn't quite caught up with reality yet. There were his hesitant moves, seemingly coming less from adjusting to getting around in a wheelchair than from his overt awareness of how he stuck out now, how everybody must be staring at him. He was back… but for a good while he looked like a stranger in his own home, the melancholy that had only flickered up occasionally before the accident now a constant companion.

But this wasn't his business; it was hardly something he could help with, even if Mr. Cale hadn't been hiding behind his mantra of 'I'm fine' from the very beginning. The one thing he could do was to simply ignore the chair, just as Mr. Cale seemed to want him to, to simply go back to their old pattern of polite, friendly chatting and ignore the younger man's initial awkwardness.

It was a pity that, apart from his therapist, there was nobody to help Mr. Cale get through such a difficult time. Nobody until Max showed up.

Joseph had always been a bit puzzled that such a smart, handsome, genuinely nice and well-off guy like Mr. Cale seemed to be a loner. From Joseph's limited perspective of seeing him and his visitors come and go, it seemed he didn't have a girlfriend, or many friends at all. Sure, he often went out, sometimes even stayed away for a night or two. The penthouse, however, seemed to be off-limits, and rarely ever exposed to friends or family.

Sure, he had been married, but that had been years ago and after that Joseph hadn't seen Mr. Cale in another relationship.

_The wedding seemed to have been a spur of the moment decision, his __future wife only having been seen at Fogle Towers a few times before she moved in after their honeymoon. Their marriage didn't last long, and their happy couple-phase, their willingness to make any problem disappear with a smile and a kiss, was even shorter. Soon Joseph could perceive a tension between them, sensed how their words and gestures displayed a forced politeness, not knowing whether it lasted when they were out of his sight, or maybe erupted into one of those ferocious fights possible only after having lovingly learned all of the other's quirks._

_They both tried to hide Mrs. Cale__'s alcohol problem, and Joseph ignored all the signs as well with polite professionalism, hoping that things would get better for them again. But there was nothing to hide anymore after the evening she stormed through the lobby with the hunched shoulders and tightly controlled mouth of someone close to tears, her gait already insecure from a glass too much. She came back late in the evening, sobbing in her miserable, liquor-fogged mix of self-pity and self-hatred, unable to walk a straight line, so that Joseph had to escort her up into the arms of her guilty-looking husband. It wasn't the last time. _

_After she__ had moved out a few months later, their fancy little parties stopped, as did the trickle of friends which seemed to have been more hers than his. _

He could understand that Mr. Cale was reluctant to get involved with someone again, especially now that he wasn't quite comfortable yet with his new physical status… but still, Ms. Guevera, as young as she was, somehow revealed glimpses of a different, intriguingly untroubled part of him – boyish and flirting, shy and daring – a side that Joseph had hardly ever seen despite knowing him for so long. It touched his curiosity, his pleasure in seeing a romance unfold – and there was some kind of romance between them, no matter their busy attempts to show the world the opposite… And so, this evening, as they came down maybe an hour after Ms. Guevara had gone upstairs, Joseph watched them closely as he had begun to do when they were together, this time pretending to pick out dead leaves from the generous arrangement of potted plants decorating the entry hall

The thing that caught his eye first was Mr. Cale's perfectly clean-shaven face. Joseph couldn't remember that he had ever done that before for a special occasion, be it Christmas or birthdays. Even when he had been dressed up with a tuxedo and all for the 100 year anniversary of Cale Industries– gussied up as his grandmother would have called it – his jaw line had been softened by a generous three day growth.

With Mr. Cale, shaving days seemed to be dictated more by the inconvenient necessity of preventing his stubble turning into a savage beard than by societal demands or the wish to impress a woman.

Well, now it was different… or better, _she_ was different. Checking his supply of assorted emergency batteries for the next black out, Joseph started whistling softly to shoo away the grin threatening to reveal his thoughts.

His attempt to hide his curiosity was unnecessary. Those two were completely in a world of their own, not giving him more than an absent answer to his loud and friendly "Good evening, Mr. Cale, Ms. Guevara".

Their oblivion allowed him a closer look at Max to confirm that not only Mr. Cale had gone through some extra-effort – but that the same was true for her too. Of course, Max had always been an eye-catching beauty, with an exotic attractiveness even when she came in wet and dirty on a rainy day. Today, however, she seemed to be glowing from within, moving with that special ease that came from falling in love. It was only little things that were different, maybe going unnoticed by others, but to Joseph's trained eyes they gave her away: the obviously new pair of sneakers, her curls looking just a bit more cared for, the way she had chosen her clothes with exactly that amount of careful calculation that could still be downplayed as just her usual style. She had even put on a bit of make-up, something that was as much of a novelty as Mr. Cale's sudden friendship with his razor. It made them look like couple from one of these pre-Pulse movies that, after a lot of heartbreak and confusion, always ended with a kiss.

Seemingly they had every reason to be happy and relaxed, to easily chat and laugh as they normally did… and yet they were quiet, occupied with stealing admiring glances of the other only to quickly look away when their eyes met.

The overly careful choice of clothes, the nervous smiles and awkward silence as if both were wracking their brains to come up with something intelligent – Joseph had seen enough to give his judgment: This was a date, no question.

With a sigh of regret at not being able to further follow this little love-drama, he watched them disappear from his sight through the doorway, sure that the both of them would be the objects of admiring gazes wherever they went.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Like promised, next week we'll be back to Max and Logan...


	12. Max 4, by Shywr1ter

**Disclaimer:** No ownership of characters or DA; no profits made.

**A/N:** Is our little experiment working? Please let us hear from you -- any comments, complaints, suggestions, let us know!

_xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxooxoxoxoxoxoxo_

"**Leading a Horse to Water**"

_The Crash Challenge_, _Max POV 4, by Shywr1ter_

"Fall not in love, therefore; it will stick to your face."

_"Deteriorata,"_ National Lampoon

_xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxooxoxoxoxoxoxo_

Max could feel her grin lingering, even long minutes after she'd walked out of Logan's bedroom to wait for him out in his front room.

...he'd actually _shaved_. Max wondered at that. _No question about it. It's not like it's some odd coincidence that his chin's bare, like if he was cooking dinner and just happened to make enough for two, or started keeping milk in his fridge, 'cos he used it in his cooking sometimes. And it certainly wasn't like he did it for the place: he'd been in Crash before and knew damn well it wasn't his family's yacht club. _

No, shaving was ... was a **thing.** It was making a statement. A _gesture_. Something a rich guy like Logan would do, for ... for ...

_Say it, Max..._

_...for a __**date.**_

She felt her cheeks warming at the thought. _Whether or not he tries to bail later on, at least he has every intention of starting off things by coming along. _

...and why did that make her feel so good?

She wandered over to the window where she'd caught Logan brooding a couple times, and stared out at the lights twinkling over the city. It _is_ hypnotic, she thought, and unwittingly remembered what Original Cindy had said about Logan's coming to Crash, and why he might have turned her down the other times she'd offered:

"_...the boy probably ain't been back in circulation all that much since he was shot and ain't so used to not being the tallest guy in the room. So not only does he have his crisis of the week to write about – he's probably feelin' pretty new to clubbin' on wheels..."_

Max hadn't thought of that, of _any_thing like that. She knew he took it hard, his injury, but he wouldn't talk about it, wouldn't even mention it. And she was used to being around people who weren't as physically adept as she was, at all levels of ability and lack thereof. _If it mattered to me what people could do or not do, I'd be a pretty lonely X-5_, she reasoned. But she hadn't really stopped to think that it might be why Logan hid up here, so wrapped up in his crusades. Sure, he was intense before, she'd seen that clearly enough. _And maybe nothing is really different_, she considered. But what a great excuse to stay up here, above it all, hide out and not face the world. Here, it's all clean and everything is in arm's reach. _Accessible_. Out there – there were curbs and potholes, stairs and busted elevators – hell, she knew that from her deliveries. How many times did she have to climb the stairs to make a drop, because the power was out, or the elevator was broken down, parts on eternal back order...

She frowned a little, feeling a tug in her chest. _All I have to do is run the stairs, as much as it's a hassle sometimes. No choice for Logan, though..._

She heard the whisper of rubber tread on hardwood, and swallowed, fast and hard. He was leaving the safety and dignity of this place, for her, she realized. He'd even shaved.

_Definitely a __**thing**__, this trip to Crash. Don't screw it up, Max._

She made sure she had her self-assured smirk in place before she turned, speaking as she did. "I see why you like the view," she began conversationally. "The lights are beau..."

_The blue of that shirt... who'd have thought it would do __**that**__ to his eyes..._

"...tiful," she managed to finish. "You ready?"

She didn't register his reply but assumed he answered in the affirmative, seeing him move toward the front door.

_Mission Crash, Max,_ she squared herself to follow him. _Mostly according to plan so far..._

She followed him to the door, seeing his nervousness and catching it, wondering again what was going though his head. Nervous, because what Cindy said, being on wheels? Nervous ... because of what made him shave?

Nervous, either way.

_Mission creep?_

The thought made her smile...

...so much so that he must have caught her smiling when he turned, suddenly, and tipped his head for her to go first out the door. She shrugged and went ahead of him, feeling her cheeks warm again, relieved that at least this way he wouldn't see her face as she kicked herself back to the planet. _Focus on the mission, Max,_ she warned herself. _You of all people shouldn't let a little bare skin and Logan's game face – bare as his chin may be – throw you off your game. _

She hit the button for the elevator and they waited in an awkward silence, broken finally by the soft whoosh of the elevator doors, and then, as they descended, by Logan asking her...

_...about the weather?_

Max tried not to roll her eyes, reminding herself that no matter exactly what it was about this that had Logan stammering like a kid, it was her doing – she'd pestered him to come have 'fun' and he was here, coming along, looking as if she was dragging him to the dentist.

_For __**you**__, Max. Deal with it!_

The elevator doors opened and they came though the lobby under the watchful eye of Joseph, the grandfatherly security guard, who over time had clearly shown his soft spot for Logan. He'd greeted her earlier, when she'd arrived, but with a bit wider smile than usual. She brushed it off as his having a good day, maybe an upcoming visit with his grandkids, but he positively beamed when he spoke to them now.

His smile and cheerful words drew her own response just as quickly, she felt her cheeks warm yet again as she realized his reaction was for what he saw. _He's seen us together before – hasn't he? He knows I drop in on Logan all the time. So what is it about tonight that he sees that's making him think...?_

_...and whatever it is ... will they see it at Crash?_

Max glanced back at Logan as he too spoke to Joseph, but he seemed oblivious to the man's clear pleasure at their appearance together, his words pleasant but brief, looking for all the world as if the lobby had become an obstacle course. She grinned to herself in anticipation. _The great Eyes Only, taking on the corrupt and the evil with ease, but nervous as hell about a little date...?_

She caught herself. _No, not date ..._

_...or is it? Face it Max, _she lectured,_ you're both as nervous as if it's a major first date. Which, in a way..._

She came to the doors leading out to the garage and breezed through, holding the door open as Logan came up behind her. It was another excuse for her to turn and make eye contact yet again, and she looked back to the man who was valiantly following her, exuding the aura of a soldier marching off to face impossible odds but doggedly willing to do the right thing. Her own nervousness and his determination melted her heart yet again, and the warm, affectionate smile she bestowed on him as he looked up caused his own, uncomfortable grin to lighten and ease into a more genuine one.

_This will be a good night, Logan_, she promised him silently. _You deserve some fun..._

She crossed over to her motorcycle, fishing out her keys and suddenly slowing her movement as she neared it. She was well aware that Logan came and went in his Aztek all the time; she figured he must have it rigged up that he could do so without Bling or anyone else to lend a hand. But she'd never been around when he did; they'd never gone anywhere together before. She had no idea how what all was involved or how long it might take him, and suddenly Max wanted to do all she could to minimize his awareness that by the time he'd even reached his door, she could have already been down the block and revving off into the night...

So she leaned over to check a few of the fittings on her bike, testing perfectly seated cables and brushing off non-existent road grime. She popped open the small compartment where her yellow-lensed street glasses were kept and slid them on. She was keenly aware, even without watching directly, that Logan had already opened the door to his SUV and had slipped inside, and had broken down his chair. As he pulled the pieces inside, she smiled to herself and straddled the wide seat of her bike, glad to see it really hadn't taken her much stalling at all to wait for Logan to get situated. _Good to know that Eyes Only won't get himself in a jam taking all day to get on the road_, she rationalized. Her smile widened as Logan started up his engine, and Max backed out of her spot beside his and waited for him to do the same.

He pulled out of his parking space as well, his eyes suddenly making contact with hers as he watched his rearview mirror. He paused before moving out, so she waved him on, without thought ready to follow, the role of protector too ingrained to lead anyone other than another soldier in her unit. The advantage of that suddenly struck her, too, knowing exactly how enthusiastic Logan was to face the Crash crowd. _Just in case, Logan,_ she chuckled inwardly, _I'll get your back for this one, too..._

They'd barely made it out of the garage and onto the street before Logan pulled over. Curious, Max rolled up to his window and Logan turned to her, his expression sincere. "Sure you don't want to take the lead?" he offered. "Ladies first."

_Oh, no Logan, you're not going to be given any chance to not go have fun._ "I'm not fallin' for that line," she said. Buoyed by the expressions she'd seen from him since she'd arrived, and his reactions to her own anticipation, she dared to tease, hoping he might finally relax, "you just wanna look at my ass."

Logan swallowed but managed to keep his game face. "Just being the rear guard," he grinned smoothly, only coloring a little with her words. His grin widening, he turned back to kick the Aztek in gear again and murmured, "as you wish."

Max let Logan lead out a few car lengths before she moved to follow him. It was a clear, comfortable night, and the streets of Sector Nine were as quiet and deserted as they usually were after dark. It was why the sudden sound of a another motorcycle engine, a well-tuned, muscular purr, was so out of place: it started up just a hair too soon after she and Logan passed to make her comfortable: _Logan's peeps just aren't generally the motorcycle crowd, and there was no bike on the street anywhere – hidden? That sound wasn't muffled, so not in a garage... _Max glanced back in her mirror to see a clean black Ducati pull out a couple blocks behind her, its rider's silhouette made slightly unearthly by the oversized helmet he wore. She swallowed, the hair on the back of her neck tingling a little. _Alright, hotshot_, she told him silently, _just what do you have in mind? _

Logan pulled up at a red light, his eyes darting back to her, and Max smiled at him. She saw him respond, and her grin went higher, revving her engine for him. _Poor Logan,_ she sympathized. _I thought you society types were all about going to the club to be seen._ She noted that the Ducati had slowed behind her, too, but did not stop, rolling up within a few hundred feet of her before the light turned. _Okay, so nothing too unusual there_, she noted. _Either sheer coincidence, or someone who knows that hanging back would only raise suspicion..._

The light turned green but Logan didn't move, and Max looked in question to the mirror in his car, feeling a momentary concern that something was wrong – until she saw the expressive green eyes not watching the road or the light, but her. She smirked and pointed toward the light. "It's as green as it's going to get, Logan," she offered his reflection.

Logan moved on and Max followed, her eyes flicking over to the mirror with increasing frequency the longer the Ducati was on their tail. She couldn't really make out much about its rider other than male, fairly tall and a good, strong build ... good taste in bikes. She reflected that she hadn't seen any others in Seattle since she'd been there, and if anyone in town had the cash to get one – and keep one – in such good shape, it just might be someone in the same financial league as Logan. The hum of a well-tuned motorcycle, sadly, was a too-rare voice in the post-Pulse days of cobbled-together vehicles. It spelled both money and maintenance skills. She hoped that was all it implied.

After another few glances toward the man, the bike suddenly peeled away, and the street behind them was empty. Max relaxed a little, as they came within a mile of Crash. But even as traffic picked up and the city sounds became more insistent, Max thought she could still hear that distinctive purr not all that far off, even over her own engine's roar...

In only anther few minutes Logan dutifully pulled into the alley behind Crash, and they found parking places not too far from the decently lighted back entrance. She shut down her engine and immediately heard the now-familiar sound of the powerful motorcycle that had followed them from Sector Nine.

She wouldn't let on to Logan, at least not until it appeared the man might be a threat. She swung off her bike, walking slowly around to the back of the Aztek toward Logan, watching down the next block to see the Ducati pull into the alley that continued across the street. No coincidence that a bike, parked near Logan's place, would leave as they did and end up at their destination. _Like there are so many Sector Nine residents in Crash any given night_, she frowned...

But Logan was turning toward her and she met his eyes, smiling again with his attempt to look cheerful. "So," he began, dropping his eyes from hers nervously. He looked down the line of other vehicles along the alley, then glanced over at the loading ramp which disappeared down below the buzzing floodlight at Crash's back door, before looking back up to her. "Shall we go in?"

Max's eyes softened, appreciating yet again how gamely Logan was taking this on, and she led the way across the alley and down the ramp, pulling the heavy door open and turning back to face him. "Don't worry," she said, leaning on the open door casually as she watched him come down the ramp, "you'll be fine." The ramp wasn't so deep that she couldn't see the alley behind them, and she took one last look over Logan's shoulder at the motorcycle across the street, its rider dismounting to park it beside the building on the corner. He hadn't yet removed the heavy helmet, and Max's eyebrows dipped slightly in her curiosity. _Anyone wanting to be covert would have to be crazy to bring a flashy ride like that. And that helmet,_ she tempered her suspicion, smirking inwardly at the thing. _The guy might just be here for a couple beers, just like everyone else,_ she reasoned, but made note of his clothing and build before glancing back to Logan, as he stopped a few inches from her, at the door.

At the moment, Logan was frowning his small protest at her words. "Who said anything about being worried?"

Max swallowed her grin to shrug contritely, and gestured him into the open door. And as she pushed off to amble in behind him, she cast one, languid look back down the block...

**Next week: Logan's view of events!**


	13. Logan 4, by lilmouse

The Crash Challenge: Logan's POV 4

**Author's Brief Note:** Logan's perspective once more. As I post this chapter, I can't recall who will follow next week and have left it rather late to expect a response to my inquiry with the rest of the Writers' Pulse. My apologies if I've guessed incorrectly.

Cheers!

**Making Waves**

**By lilmouse**

**_"For fools rush in where angels fear to tread."_**

- _Alexander Pope, English Poet, 1688 – 1744_

Logan Cale managed to exit his apartment and lock the door without saying anything too embarrassing or falling on his ass. He gestured for Max to precede him, which he thought was a very gentlemanly thing to do and the view was frosting on the cake. He followed her to the elevator, waited in a comfortable silence for it to arrive with only checking his watch _twice_ and even touched briefly on the weather during the ride down.

He cleared his throat. "So, think it'll rain?"

Max lounged against the interior rail, gave him a tiny smile and slid her gaze away from watching the numbers as they pinged down to one to look at him. "This is _Seattle_," she replied, as if that explained everything. Being a resident of the city for a while, he had to agree that it probably did.

Logan nodded without feeling like a bobble-head doll. "Yeah," he said easily, squashing his nerves firmly into a corner where he hoped they would be quiet. "That's what I thought, too."

So far, the evening was looking good.

_Take the small victories where you can find them -_

Fogle Towers employed someone at the front desk twenty-four/seven and Logan recognized the familiar face currently on duty. He was a good man, Joseph. They didn't exchange Christmas cards or share in-depth political conversations but Logan thought of him as the friendly uncle he didn't have. To say that Joseph was a one hundred percent improvement over Jonas Cale was a vast understatement. Comparing him to his selfish uncle wasn't really fair: it wasn't difficult to shine like an angel when positioned next to the left hand of Evil. Logan appreciated his presence and knew he could rely on the man when it came to his privacy.

Sometimes he worried about Joseph's safety, given the nature of his dual existence as Seattle's self-proclaimed Defender of Justice, but with any luck no one would ever know he was Eyes Only and therefore no one at Fogle Towers would ever be at risk because of him.

If any harm ever came to Joseph, though, Logan would ensure that the man's wife and family wouldn't starve.

The elderly man greeted them as he and Max covered the distance to the door at a gentle pace, the tires of his wheelchair almost silent on the marble floor. Logan acknowledged the friendly greeting but could only do so many things at once. He used to be much better at multi-tasking but at that very moment, getting from A to B without colliding into any of the lobby furniture while surreptitiously watching Max were the only two things on which he could properly focus.

They made it to the garage and he transferred into the Aztek. Max took her time getting herself organized with her bike while he broke the wheelchair down and loaded it into the back seat. He was secretly pleased that she didn't offer to help, trusting he knew what he was doing and could handle it just fine. Which he could, of course. She wasn't on-call and at his whim. This was his life now; this was reality. The only person he could really count on was himself. Bling was a good friend and a godsend but he couldn't be there all the time, either, and Logan didn't want to be coddled. He could deal with whatever life threw at him. _Move forward, not backward, Cale._

He decided that going to Crash would prove at least one thing: He was capable of being social, even if he chose to be a hermit.

_Ah, but how much is choice and how much is plain, old-fashioned, stark terror at the thought of living?_

Max smiled at him as he started the engine. She straddled her bike, sans helmet, and backed out of the spot beside him. He negotiated reverse without hitting anything and even didn't mind too much the smile he could see in his own eyes as he looked in the rearview mirror. She waved him ahead, indicating she was going to make sure he didn't disappear en route. He drove toward the road and paused, checking traffic closely before turning. It was a quiet evening and the streetlights revealed very little in the way of activity.

Logan pulled over before they'd traveled twenty feet. He lowered the window and placed his left elbow out the door. Max stopped beside him and he leaned out slightly to speak with her.

"Sure you don't want to take the lead?" he asked. He'd given up dodging the visit to Crash: that wasn't an option and he wouldn't run on her now. A small part of Eyes Only tugged at him, wanting to be the one to watch her back for a change. _Maybe she'll think I'm being a gentleman_, he thought. "Ladies first."

Max smirked. "I'm not fallin' for that line," she said, and lifted her chin, eyelids lowering seductively. "You just wanna look at my _ass_," she purred.

Logan swallowed but managed to keep his game face. "Just being the _rear_ guard," he said smoothly, pleased and embarrassed that he was flirting _and_ making a pun. He grinned. "As you wish," he murmured and took the lead.

He wasn't oblivious to the motorcycle that pulled out behind Max. Male, helmet on and visor down. Logan wasn't an X-5 but he hadn't survived several years of late-night meets with informants and his own share of near misses with the bad guys by _not_ being aware of his surroundings or constantly checking his mirrors. Even distracted by the night ahead of him, some things were second nature now. His mother hadn't raised a stupid son.

They reached a red light. Logan checked his rearview mirror for the umpteenth time. The black Ninja wasn't tailgating him but it wasn't giving him room to escape. He smiled and shook his head. He wasn't going to run but it appeared some part of Max still wasn't sure if he was really sticking with the plan. She needn't have worried. This was another Eyes Only mission, in a way, and he wasn't about to back down from the challenge a visit to Crash presented. He was anticipating the usual environment.

_Predominantly young people, including friends of Max, music too loud, an inability to be heard properly without shouting until his voice was hoarse, nachos with too much goop on top, smoke everywhere so thick you could chew on it -_

He checked the mirror again. Max must have known, somehow, because she grinned back at him and revved her engine. The image of her, windblown and happy and flushed red by his brake lights, distracted him just enough to miss the light changing to green. Max pointed toward the intersection and mouthed something he couldn't hear. He returned his focus to the road and drove ahead.

_Pay attention or you'll get killed driving to a bar, Cale._

Despite his concern about the motorcyclist, the stranger peeled off after a few blocks and the drive to Crash was blessedly uneventful.

Logan parked the Aztek in a spot behind the building, more a wide alley than a street. Other vehicles were there so it was obviously not an unusual location. He turned off the engine, took a deep breath and let it out again slowly. He was doing that a lot lately. Max pulled up beside him, parked the Ninja and dismounted smoothly. He set up the wheelchair with apparent ease, though he didn't feel nearly as graceful. The transfer went well. He locked the SUV and looked up at Max in the buzzing floodlight that was mounted over what was obviously a delivery door.

"So," he began, scanning the other vehicles as best he could from a seated position before returning to her face. "Shall we go in?"

Max laughed. "Don't worry," she said, opening the door so he could roll down the ramp and into the building. "You'll be fine."

He frowned slightly. "Who said anything about being worried?"

If he'd seen the motorcycle parked against the wall further down, he might have been worried, indeed.

_xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx_

_**Next Week: Zack is back:)**_


	14. Original Cindy, by Lisa0316

_**The Fine Art of Tracking**_

_By lisa0316_

**"One loyal friend is worth ten thousand relatives."**  
_- Euripides_

Original Cindy strutted into Crash and surveyed the floor. She had come to meet up with Max and her rich boy, but Cindy had an ulterior motive that night. Her hidden mission objective was to find that super-fine, lickety-boo chick that she had her eye on all week. She stood at the top of the stairs and scanned the bar. Max was nowhere to be seen, but the tasty looking blond she was looking for was at a table with some of her friends. Cindy decided she would stand there for awhile and stare her down. Tonight was the night she would make contact; talk to her and find out her name.

After six or seven minutes Cindy was trying to decide if she had devoted enough time staring from that location and was contemplating moving towards the bar, when she noticed Max and Logan coming in through the back entrance. It was a little later than Max had said they would be there, but they had made it. Cindy had to admit that the boy cleaned up good.

She smiled at the way Max hovered over him with protective, possessive alertness, and she couldn't help but notice the way Logan looked around the bar with poorly concealed skepticism and apprehension. That man probably had no idea how much Max cared about getting him out, and Cindy was willing to bet a paycheck that Max had never straight up let him know much this night meant to her either. She figured Max probably didn't even know it herself. They were both trying so hard to act like their night out was no big deal.

Cindy stared at their forced nonchalance and rolled her eyes heavenward. She _knew_ that if those two would just shut up and get naked and do it already, they would communicate a lot better. She loved Max like a sister, but the girl was wound too tight and it looked like she had hooked up with a man even more straight laced than she was. Original Cindy was always amazed that so many heteros couldn't recognize simple unresolved sexual tension when they saw it.

As they hung around talking and drinking, Cindy realized that 'tense' was definitely a word that described Logan that evening. She tried to hide a smile as she watched him, but a smirk still raised the corners of her mouth. Logan was visibly uncomfortable. He kept nervously running his hands along his legs and taking furtive glances around the room. He was acting like he had just wandered into a bar of beer swilling Martians. _Poor guy_. OriginalCindy felt sorry for anyone that uncomfortable in their own skin. There was a time in her life when she felt that way about her own skin, and she hated seeing it in her friends.

"Hey, Logan, you play pool?"

"I haven't in awhile," he answered noncommittally.

"Good, because Original Cindy likes to win." She hooked her arm around Logan's shoulder and started leading him to a pool table. "It ain't no fun playing with Max. Girl's too damn coordinated for her own good if you ask me." She noticed with amusement how Logan kept glancing over his shoulder to make sure Max was still following them.

Cindy racked the balls and handed Logan a pool cue. "You wanna break?"

Logan gave a small shrug and wheeled himself even further into a small, dark corner. "You go ahead," he indicated to her with a small wave of his hand.

"Aiight." Cindy leaned over the table to break, sinking one solid. She lined up her second shot and smiled as she landed that one too. Her third shot was a miss, and she stepped back form the table to make room for Logan.

Cindy watched with satisfaction while the overwhelmed, dazed look that he had worn since he wandered into the bar was slowly replaced with one of concentration as he studied the table. He turned his chair parallel to the table and lined up his first shot. Cindy looked up in time to see Max beam when he sunk his first ball with ease. He moved around the table to make his second shot, which also caused the ball to roll smoothly into the pocket. He followed with a more complicated bank shot that succeeded in taking another striped ball from the table and impressing both Cindy and Max.

"Nice shot!" Max called out. Logan gave her a small smile before moving on to take aim again. They watched him sink a yet another ball.

"Damn! Rich boys can play pool! And here I thought you was all about water polo an' badminton an' all that. Original Cindy stands corrected. Did Max explain to you how we play here? How the winner always buys the next round of drinks?"

"Winner buys? That doesn't sound like much of a prize."

"But it's a tradition, right, Max?" Max quickly nodded a confirmation, trying her best to look angelic and truthful.

Cindy noticed that Max was smiling at Logan with that smile that always reminded her of a cat in front of a saucer of cream. She seemed thrilled and relieved that he was actually relaxing and having fun. Cindy tried to remember the last time that Max cared so much about _anything_. With satisfaction, she watched Logan continue to smile back at Max. He seemed a little calmer now. Good. Of course, in Original Cindy's world, it was never fun if things were _too_ calm, and she was curious about the type of man that Max would get so twisted up over. She decided to test the waters.

"Logan, check out that girl over there by the bar."

"Which girl?"

"'Which girl?' The HOT girl!" Cindy exclaimed incredulously, as if there could be any doubt as to which girl he should be checking out. "MY hot girl! The one I've been trying to hook up with since the first time she walked in here. Blond hair. What do you think?"

"Oh. She seems very…nice," Logan ventured uncertainly, as though he didn't quite know how to respond and didn't believe he was really having that conversation in the first place.

"_Nice?_ You need to clean those glasses? Look at her! That shorty is _fine_. Smokin' hot, long legs, tie-her-to-the-bed-posts-sex-kitten fine! You _know_ only a white girl could have an ass that flat and make it look so damn good!" Cindy admitted with deep appreciation as she ran her eyes over her objective.

Logan opened his mouth to respond, but words seemed to fail him. Cindy lined up a shot and sunk a solid ball into the right corner pocket. Logan hadn't actually missed his shot, giving the game back to her, but at this point Cindy figured he would never notice.

"Been watching that hottie all week," Cindy continued while missing a shot and stepping away from the table. "I figure tonight is the night Original Cindy makes her first move. Tonight she's gonna talk to me and tell me her name."

"Why don't you just ask her out?" Logan smiled, seeming bemused by the conversation in spite of himself.

"See now, sugar, there you go thinking like a _man _again. All obvious and goal-oriented! The female mind don't work that way. You gotta let a shorty know you're interested first. Women like a little seduction, you know. They like knowing someone's into them. First you watch the girl, then you let her _catch_ you watchin' her."

"I thought women considered that _stalking_."

"Not if you do it _right_! Baby, I've got moves, another week and that girl's gonna be my ever willin' sex-slave. You just wait."

"So you're going to take it slow?"

"Exactly!" To herself, Cindy thought _…not as slow as you and Max take it or nuthin' – I'd never get any action if I went _that_ slow_.

Cindy decided that Logan had passed her informal inspection, and she continued to educate him in the fine art of seducing women as they played their game. Somehow the conversation became less shocking and more entertaining as it progressed, and the three settled into a comfortable banter. Cindy used that time to observe the way Logan always glanced over at Max to see if she was smiling at a joke or to look into her eyes as she spoke, and she wondered how it was even _possible_ that Max -who was usually so observant that she could tell you the color of the socks that Normal wore to work last Thursday- could miss it.

"Eight ball, corner," Logan announced as he made the final shot and won the game. "Looks like I just won the privilege of buying you a drink."

"Why don't you go order up a pitcher of beer and find us a table in the back. We'll meet you in a minute. We have to go to the Ladies' Room!"

"We do?" Max questioned.

"We do," Original Cindy said forcefully, smiling cheerfully at Logan and steering her friend into another corner of the bar.

"What's up with you?" Max inquired after Cindy had pulled her into a doorway that cut the noise some and allowed them to talk.

"Now Original Cindy _knows_ she was right. It's just like I keep telling you. That boy is so into you. You and Waspy should seriously consider hookin' up and knockin' boots. It'd do you both some good."

"I keep telling you, we totally aren't like that," Max explained patiently, yet again. Cindy decided she was getting real tired of that line. She would have to break it down for Max, since it was so damned obvious to everyone else.

"Girl, he tracks you."

"What?"

"I said he tracks you, and not just tonight. Every time I see you two together, he's trackin' you.

"I have no idea what that means," Max explained to her friend.

"Sugar, you just follow me here. Imagine you shut Sketchy in a room, and you put a free beer in the room with him…"

"Sketchy's an idiot," Max pointed out.

"That he is," Cindy agreed shaking her head sadly. "But that ain't the point. You tell him that he can't have the beer cause it's off-limits, so he doesn't try to drink the beer. But he knows the beer is there. He watches the beer. Even if he's doing something else, he's _aware_ of the beer. Cause the fool _wants_ the beer, even though he thinks he can't have it. He always knows where the beer is and what the beer is doing, because he can't stop thinking about the beer. He is _tracking_ that beer. Your boy, Logan, _tracks you_.

"He does not," Max denied.

Out of the corner of her eye Cindy identified Logan waiting at a small table in the corner, and then she glanced away quickly so he wouldn't know he was being watched. "Just look at him."

Cindy looked at Max with a self-satisfied smirk after she saw Max look at Logan,

who had been staring at her intently a moment before. When he noticed her staring back at him, he immediately averted his gaze to the bar and focused on something else. She also looked away the moment he caught her looking at him. It didn't escape Cindy's attention that Max also knew exactly where he was the entire time.

"Face it, Boo, you move his furniture."

Cindy merely rolled her eyes, crossed her arms and looked bored as Max dove into yetanother litany about how they were just friends and _of course_ he was looking at her because she was the only person in the bar that he knew and that he himself had said that they didn't have that kind of relationship.

Girl was a damn fool, Cindy decided, and in serious denial. But if Max wanted to pretend there was nothing there, she would let her. Cindy knew that sometimes people needed to lie to themselves just to get by in life, and this was probably one of those times for both of them. They both had their issues, after all. Cindy made a private resolution that she wouldn't push them any further. Well, at least not for a little while.

Still, Cindy figured, there was no hope of the two of them kickin' it if she hung around all night. She and Max wandered back to Logan's table and she retrieved her drink. She thanked him for the beer and informed Logan that she would be putting drinks on his tab for the rest of the evening or until she won the next game, whichever came first. Then she left them alone and headed into a different part of the bar to find some new action.

She wandered around looking for something to do. Should she go help Sketchy, who looked like he had made some new friends at the bar and was getting drunker by the second? That boy really was a moron; he deserved whatever trouble he got. Still, she had to look out for her crew. She sighed. _Oh Hell,_ w_hat would Xena do?_ Better go and make sure the moron doesn't get himself into trouble.

She started to head back to the bar to rescue Sketchy from his own stupidity and to try to recruit someone to take him home, when Cindy was suddenly distracted by her hottie-blond looking at her from the foosball table, her hand on her hip, her weight shifted to one side, her friends elsewhere, and an inviting smile on her face. Cindy immediately forgot about her plans to save Sketchy. She smiled back and quickly changed direction.

Tracking always seemed to pay off in the end.

xXx

**Thanks for reading!**

**Reviews are appreciated.**

**Next week: Murray, a new original character by Mari83.**


	15. Murray, by Mari83

**A/N:** Many thanks to Shywr1ter for the deluxe beta and ever-patient help and explanations. All remaining mistakes are mine.

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"_Now John at the bar is a friend of mine  
He gets me my drinks for free  
And he's quick with a joke and he'll light up your smoke  
__**But there's some place that he'd rather be"**_

(Billy Joel, Piano Man, 1973)

Murray, Crash's bartender by Mari83

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Murray had never wanted to become a bartender. When he had imagined his future twenty years ago, a young, ambitious student, these pictures hadn't shown himself standing behind the counter of a noisy, run-down establishment, serving cheap beer to people in various states of drunkenness. He hadn't seen himself in a job the intellectual heights of which consisted of adding the price of five beers to that of three of the cheap stuff Crash sold as Vodka.

But somewhere in between his first, well-paid job for an international computer company and the birth of his second son the Pulse had happened, brutally crushing the dreams of a whole people. In just a matter of seconds the popular goals of having a nice car or a house in suburbia were brutally wiped from people's heads, leaving them to fight frantically for survival in a world turned upside down.

Things had lightened up since then, but still the blessedly rich, happy life he had led in the Pre-Pulse world was as far away and unreachable now as a fairy tale telling of better times that had vanished for good. Murray wasn't complaining. He knew that he could consider himself lucky that his wife and he had a job which allowed his family a life that before the Pulse would have been considered shabby, but now placed them among the fortunate ones with a regular income and a modest home. They even were able to save a bit for their kids, maybe one day allowing them to attend one of the few colleges that were still open – if only if their parents worked hard enough…if only this country ever recovered from its endless depression.

The one thing that made his job interesting was the people. Even though surplus money was a rare commodity these days, Crash was crowded every evening, filled with dozens searching for a little escape from their dull lives now that vacations were the privilege of a well-off few. There were strangers and regulars, groups and singles, old and young, all coming over to place their orders with the man at the bar who stored away faces and names with the ease that came with a good memory and years of practice. Murray chatted with them as he served their drinks, indulging in a bit of small talk about the constants of economic depression, corrupt sector cops and Seattle's rain, or he observed them while polishing glasses, catching a bit of information here and a splinter of a story there, that all were fitted into the fragmentary puzzles of their lives.

With the regular customers it was almost like a soap opera, watched on a broken TV with the tone muted and muffled, distorted by the deafening clash of voices and music that gave him only random shards of their conversations but nevertheless over the years bestowed their faces with such familiarity that he missed them if one didn't show up for a week or two.

It was like that with the group over there, scattered over two or three tables at the far end of the room almost every evening. Most of them were bike messengers, working for one of the many delivery services that had seen a fast rise after the Pulse, when, with the ever-present scarcity of fuel, muscle power suddenly became a valuable resource again. They were young; most of them in their early twenties or even under… and still, most of them had come to Crash for years, starting to spend their evenings in bars at an age much younger than they would have been allowed to enter them before the Pulse, let alone consume alcohol, imbibing amounts that made Crash's greasy owner a happy man. Before the Pulse most of them still would have been in school or college, not on their own and responsible for earning a living in dull jobs that were far from challenging their abilities.

Today they had a stranger with them, a guy whose small, wire-framed glasses and blonde, spiky hair seemed oddly familiar. Murray felt as if he'd seen him before, somewhere, but couldn't place him in the mass of customer's faces in his head until he saw the wheelchair as the guy moved a bit to devotedly listen to a remark by that dark-haired bike-messenger, Max. He knew that guy, remembered how, some months ago, he'd come down the entrance stairs as if he owned the place, emanating an eye-catching self-confidence that still was memorable even now.

_Stopping at the foot of the stairs, t__he guy took a moment to scan the crowded room, seeming to searching for someone, and then strode over to Murray at the bar, with a determination that carelessly ignored the admiring looks from a couple of females. _

_A generous roll of cash __was then presented to Murray, together with the slightly blurred picture of a girl who he recognized as Max and the question if he knew her whereabouts. There was been an odd, calculating gleam in the stranger's eyes, a look that wasn't only the usual, lovesick longing of someone who thought he'd found the love of his life in a random bar-flirt, but something else, something more rational that left him with a trickle of unease after immediately pointing over to where Max stood. As soon as the stranger turned to weave through the crowd, Murray was having second thoughts for his rash, careless reaction triggered by the multitude of demanding orders of an hectic evening._

_With an interest founded in his uncertai__nty about the man's motive he watched how the man had walked over to the girl, again in his determination not paying any attention to his surroundings. Upon seeing him the girl froze, cornered, almost like a deer that had suddenly found itself in dangerously close proximity to a hunter. _

_For__ a moment Murray thought that maybe it had been a mistake to unthinkingly single her out to this stranger, merely relying on his well-trained instinct that hadn't picked up any danger or reasons for distrust. Then though, with a tiny shrug the girl seemed to relax with – or rather resign herself to – the inevitable meeting, a minute later leaving Crash together with the stranger, his arm brushing against hers in a lack of distance that spoke of an electrifying attraction. _

_The next time he__ saw the man was on TV, ambushed and shot down by a couple of criminals in one of the hover-drone videos that were shown nowadays as a cheap substitute for the formerly so popular crime-series_.

_Murray __ hadn't expected to see him again after that, had already put him on the long, sad list of Seattle's crime victims … and was glad to be proven wrong a few months later, when, on a quiet afternoon, the guy came in again, this time in the company of another Jam Pony messenger, the one known as Original Cindy to every regular at Crash. However, his survival seemed to have come at a high prize, seemed to have injured him so severely that he was in a wheelchair now. Even though he looked otherwise healthy, there was a troubled frown on his face, mirrored in Cindy's restless expression, as both of them radiated nervous worry that would have fit much better in a hospital waiting room. Some minutes later, after a short phone call that only aggravated their worried looks, they left, not giving him any more opportunity to investigate the nature of their troubles. As he watched the retreating form of this guy who was nothing but a stranger, Murray felt a rush of sympathy for him for seemingly having gotten more bad news, probably only adding to those that must have led him to Crash with such an unlikely companion as Cindy._

And now, a few weeks later, the man was back, sitting in the middle of the Jam Pony group, this time displaying a nervous uneasiness that showed his awareness of how out of place he and his expensive-looking wheelchair were in the cheap, dirty surroundings of Crash. And yet he was here, the only possible reason being his silent attachment to Max, a love interest that still seemed to be in those early stages, when it couldn't be admitted openly but was clearly visible to anybody bothering to have a closer look.

This time Murray wasn't all that surprised to see him again, after all Max had mentioned wanting to bring a friend in a wheelchair only yesterday. With an amused smirk he thought back to their conversation while absentmindedly handing two pitchers of beer to a girl in a pink mini-skirt.

_From the corner of his eye he noticed __Max sauntering over to the bar, a second later causing him to look up at her typical direct question about an entrance accessible for someone on wheels. Masking his curiosity under well- trained professional friendliness, Murray pointed over to the back entrance that normally was used only for deliveries… and also occasionally to kick out a rioting drunk without too much trouble and attention._

_Her mild surprise at his answer was articulated with another, frowned question. "I thought Sketchy said you keep that door locked."_

"_I do, in this neighborhood," he grinned__ "… and so far he's been the only one who has mistaken it with the restroom's door." He gave her a conspiratorial smirk, knowing she would understand his reference to an incident a few months ago that probably wasn't one of Sketchy's fondest memories of Crash. _

Coming up from his ponderings by the noise of roaring laughter erupting from the table next to the Jam Pony crew, Murray entertained himself by watching how the guy in the wheelchair was the object of poorly hidden, admiring glances from Max whenever she felt unobserved, an attitude that alternately was replaced by not so subtle stares at each and every female daring to give her friend a flirting glance.

He couldn't accuse the girl of having a bad taste. The guy's good looks still were the same, he still had that same eye-catching special something ….and yet, he had changed... His formerly self-confident, cocky attitude of one who took female attention as a given now was gone, buried under what seemed to be equal parts of discomfort with his new physical status and his deep infatuation with the girl beside him. He tried to hide the latter under casual behavior, and even might be able to fool the group around him… but he couldn't fool the man at the bar who saw his complete oblivion to the flirtatious stares he received from the attractive blonde at the other end of the room, trying to catch his gaze for a good fifteen minutes now.

As Murray watched Max and the stranger over the endless task of polishing the hard, shiny wood of the bar, he couldn't help but think about how these two must have met, wondering what a bike messenger and a guy that seemed to be from the better parts of town could possibly have in common, what Max had beyond her exotically good looks that had made him search her out…

And as for her, what did the guy have apart from a just pretty face that made her drag him along to her friends? Was it only his money? Murray doubted it. He didn't know Max well, but she'd never seemed like a girl who clung onto a rich guy just to get along. She was an accepted, regular member of the Jam Pony group, her opinion and wits valued among them despite her young age. However, there was something that set her apart, those moments when she was lost in thoughts that didn't seem to be of the happy variety, or when she observed her surroundings with the paranoid scrutiny of someone who was afraid of life suddenly becoming a nightmare. Those moments of absentmindedness were short, not more than barely noticeably slip-ups that usually were ended well before her any of her friends noticed, letting her join their jokes and friendly quarrelling again. And still, she never was completely at ease, there was always a tightness about her which made her throw wary glances from the corner of her eyes that sometimes, for a strangely electrifying split-second, met Murray's own. It was as if she didn't really belong with the others, wasn't just the fun-seeking bike-messenger - even though he had no idea what else she could possibly be….

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_**Next week**__** Blueangel's Zack is back.**_


	16. Zack 3, by BlueAngel137

Zack's POV part 3

**Face To Face**

(written by BlueAngel137, beta-ed by Shywr1ter)

xxxoooxxx

"Somehow our devils are never quite what we expect when we meet them face to face."

(_Nelson DeMille, American writer born August 23, 1943)_

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_Friday evening, 8:40 p.m., office building across from "Fogle Towers_"

After Max had vanished inside of the high-rise building, Zack had slipped back into complete soldier mode, denying himself any further thought about Max or the whole situation. He stood motionless in the darkness, hidden behind the heavy front door of the building across the street, waiting patiently, while a small gap allowed him to observe the area without being spotted.

Surveillance – he was good at that.

Cars roared by. But apart from a few people, now and then strolling along the sidewalk, the area seemed quiet, and all of the typical noises of the post pulse world were muffled to a blurred murmur in the distance. Whatever Max was doing, she'd chosen a nice area. The windows of the elegant building that had swallowed Max just minutes ago told their own stories - stories of wealth and luxury, uncommon in most parts of the broken city.

Surprisingly, it was only about half an hour after Max had vanished when the door of the underground garage opened again with a creaking noise. Zack's heartbeat quickened. His sensitive ears detected the sound of a car and a motorcycle, and seconds later a dirty blue Pontiac Aztek emerged, followed by a black bike.

Zack drew in a breath, his eyes sticking to Max. He saw her lips curve upwards. The smile that lit her face for the tiniest part of a second was breathtaking. She looked happy, even satisfied, but when the car stopped and Max approached it, the smile changed into a curious expression.

Zack felt the pressure in his throat tighten again, helpless against the emotions that flooded through him. The window of the battered SUV opened and a head of dark blond, spiky hair poked out, belonging to a good looking male with small glasses …

_Intelligent, upper class, well educated_, Zack concluded grimly … _and probably just a spoiled snob_.

The man looked at Max, a sincere expression crossing his handsome face, as if intent on proving Zack wrong. Zack strained his senses but he couldn't understand a word. But somehow he didn't need to - the look on Max's face told him enough. Her perfectly shaped eyebrows lifted quizzically, and she inclined her head, speaking to the stranger, clearly fighting the grin that tugged on her lips and finally managed to win the battle, lightening her face again.

Zack couldn't help the soft growl of frustration that built in his throat as he watched the two of them. The cheeks of the dark blond guy even colored a bit at Max's retort (_damn, that's pathetic_), while a smooth grin revealed two rows of perfectly white teeth.

A dark expression crossed Zack's face, and it took him a few seconds to get his feelings under control. _Get a grip, Zack!_ He was here because he wanted to protect Max! She was his little sister, not a woman to dream of!

He hadn't even planned to contact her.

_Why_ _not_? A gnawing voice inside of him asked. _You contacted the others_. _Why have you been staying away from Max?_ The question confused him but his commanding inner voice came up with a plausible solution. … _Because you were afraid of your feelings, and you knew Max would never be the good little soldier again, following your orders blindly. She would never stay away from the others_.

His jaw tightened and he shook his head.

Zack knew he had to leave his hiding spot … now! And against his inner resistance he crept out of the building and quickly mounted his bike. He put on the huge, black helmet, and when the Aztek gathered speed, followed by Max, Zack pursued both vehicles in a safe distance, once again pushing all those strange, disturbing thoughts into the back of his mind.

He'd never forgive himself if anything happened to Max. That was a fact, plain and simple. Who knew who this stranger was? That the man lived in Seattle's most expensive sector didn't necessarily promise a good reputation, and his dented car looked like it had already lived through some dangerous situations.

_If you are endangering Max, you'll definitely regret it_, Zack promised the dark blond man silently, lips pursed, blue eyes sticking to the Aztek.

* * *

_15 minutes later, Crash's front entrance_

_Damn_, Zack thought as he approached the entrance door of the bar called "Crash". _That was such a poor performance._ He shook his head, disbelievingly, his jaw set … _damn_. The desperate urge to hit something (preferably his head against the gray, graffiti covered walls) became overwhelming. Zack was almost sure Max had discovered that she had been followed. Her lithe figure had tensed visibly, and although she'd tried to hide her anxiety, she'd repeatedly glanced into the mirror to keep track of him.

_Damn. Damn. Damn_. Zack clenched his teeth. _She's an X5 after all. _And according to Lydecker she had been one of the best back at Manticore, not that he cared for anything the bastard thought … but still. _Damn._

He opened the heavy steel door and threw a last glance over his shoulder to make sure he wasn't followed, at the same time planning the safest route to reach his motorcycle, just in case of an emergency.

_Damn_, he thought again. It wasn't enough that Zack had to pick exactly this evening to follow Max, an evening when she went out on a date with an upper class guy in a wheelchair, as he'd learned with some astonishment just half a minute ago … _noooo_. Zack had to allow that Max spotted him, that Max realized she was being pursued. _Damn._

_What was she doing with a guy in a wheelchair in a fucked up, rancid bar in one of the worst parts of town anyway? _The bar's surroundings looked filthy and run-down –worlds apart from the clean, well maintained high-rise district in sector nine. _This isn't the sky-bar of the Ritz, Max!_

The door fell shut behind Zack and a wave of loud music plunged down on him, momentarily distracting him. Heading straight for the bar, he realized that the name of the location, "Crash," hadn't been chosen for nothing. Stunt videos were displayed on various screens, and the noise was overwhelming. But oddly enough, the place appealed to Zack. It felt comforting to be surrounded by this wild mixture of people. Not that he'd ever admit to himself that he'd felt the slightest bit of loneliness in the last few days. **No, of course not**. But the place seemed just perfect to blend in.

_If Max has really seen me out there_ … Zack shook his head. _I had a huge helmet on … there's no way she's seen my face. I just have to be careful, just have to lay low._

Zack had reached the wooden bar now and quickly scanned the room once more, looking for any sign of danger. He saw some of Max's friends over in a corner, a huge pitcher of beer on their table like a valuable trophy. The Afro-American girl from Jam Pony stood at the top of the stairs, a few feet away from the table, radiating an air of eagerness and excitement. She was clad in a figure hugging top and tight pants, and it almost seemed as if she had to restrain herself to not bounce on her heels.

A last sweep of the room revealed nothing out of the ordinary, and finally his eyes settled on Max and the guy in the wheelchair as they entered the bar through the back entrance, pushing their way through the crowd. The mismatched pair drew some curious glances. But apart from Max's dark skinned, beautiful friend who intently watched their every move, nobody seemed to show more than superficial interest.

_Good._

First of all he'd get himself a beer, Zack decided, turning to the bar. He had never been keen on drinking alcohol. It was necessary to keep a clear head on a mission! But it was his first priority to blend in today, and it wasn't as if a few beers would have a big effect on him anyway. Catching the glance of the tall, black haired bartender, Zack leaned forward; his forearms braced on the wooden surface of the bar.

"What can I get you?" The bartender asked amiably, meeting Zack's eyes with a steady look of attentive, vivid brown eyes, only the faint touch of dark shadows under his eyes betraying that he hadn't gotten enough sleep last night.

"Beer, please."

The bartender confirmed the order with a decisive nod, and Zack watched him drawing the beer with well practiced, methodical movements while the man's eyes already took in a group of truckers, approaching the bar.

"Here you go." A full glass was pushed over the counter into his direction.

Zack nodded and grabbed a couple bills from his jeans pocket, barely able to choke down the "good job" that already danced on the tip of his tongue. The bartender accepted the payment with a brief smile and headed over to the group of bulky men, who where announcing their presence with loud, roaring laughter.

Of course the truckers ordered beer, their voices loud enough to drown the music.

And for a moment Zack allowed himself to be just Sam, his preferred alter ego, not the X5 on a mission, trying to protect his family, and certainly not the genetically engineered super-soldier who'd escaped from a secret government facility. He was just a normal guy, celebrating the end of the week, and longing to drink some beer. The alcohol would cloud his mind and muffle the pain of seeing Max (_his little Maxie_) together with this guy in the wheelchair who looked as out of place in this bar as Lydecker at a Square Dance competition.

The thought made him grin … maybe just looking at the beer was already working, and he was loosening up? Hell, the image held some attraction.

Zack took a big gulp of the orange-brown liquid and felt the beer run down his throat, slightly bitter … cold … soothing. His shoulders relaxed into a normal position, the tension in his back eased a bit. Yes, he'd just kick back for a while, drink one more beer or even two and amuse himself with the observation of all those more or less crazy creatures.

He had already spotted the guy from Max's Jam Pony crew – Sketchy. The lanky, dark haired boy seemed to be already drunk … or stoned … _whatever._ Hell, this could be fun.

Oh, and his siblings would be proud. How often had some of them bugged him about easing up? He had no idea, definitely one or two times too often.

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"_Get a life, Zack_,_"_ _Jondy had yelled angrily at him after their last heated discussion, her green eyes blazing with fury. "I'm not gonna move again. End of story. If you're happy living like a Nomad, fine … go ahead. But I've had enough, get outta my hair!" She had turned on her heel, throwing one last angry glare over her shoulder and then fled out of the apartment, slamming the door right in his face._

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"_Damn, bro, life is not just one big mission of escape and evade_," _Zane had informed him coolly, one rather black hand on his hip, leaning casually against the doorframe. Some streaks of smudge were still covering his face as he'd just returned from the garage. "What was the purpose in leaving Manticore when you're still living after their rules? Get out, have some fun, relax … at least once in a while … or your head is going to explode."_

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"_I love my family", Tinga had said softly just a few weeks ago. It was in the middle of the night and they were discussing with hushed voices as not to wake Tinga's husband and son. "I can't leave them. I'll do everything to keep them safe. We can move somewhere else if it's necessary, but I'm not going without them." Her chin was lifted defiantly, dark eyes returning his stern look with silent determination, unflinchingly. But suddenly her glance had softened again. "Let's get a drink somewhere. Let's forget about Manticore for one damn evening." She'd suddenly grinned at him, already pushing him out of the door. "Relax, Zack! It's not THAT hard." _

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Zack lifted his glass, as if toasting his rebellious siblings, and gulped another swallow of beer. He grudgingly admitted to himself that he sometimes hated the way he had to push his siblings. But being the pain-in-the-ass big brother seemed to come with his job description.

_Thanks Manticore_.

He just wanted to keep them safe. Manticore wouldn't just vanish because some kids wanted to have fun. The Committee had increased pressure on Lydecker to get "the X5 problem solved" … and the Colonel? He wouldn't hesitate to use friends or family against them. Therefore, staying too long in one place just wasn't an option. They couldn't afford to get attached.

_To hell with Manticore_, Zack thought, angrily draining the glass.

He did another thorough sweep of the bar and found Max and her friends at a table across the room. The guy Max had brought with her looked quite uncomfortable, as he unconsciously rubbed the back of his head and then ran his hands along his legs.

_Not exactly your crowd, huh? This isn't the Ritz, remember? _Zack thought with some satisfaction and decided to order another glass of beer.

He contently sipped the cool beverage and once again concentrated on all the different characters who crowded the bar in varying states of drunkenness. But the moment of contentment didn't last very long. Instead the soldier inside of him was revived way too fast for his own liking when his eyes suddenly stuck on a rather short man. The entrance door had just closed behind him, and the man crossed the room, heading straight for the bar. His blond hair was cut precisely, his purposeful steps accurate. And there was something about him that radiated power, something that revealed that the man was used to giving orders, as well as used to being obeyed without question.

Zack held his breath. It wasn't possible ... completely unlikely.

Every muscle of his well built body tensed. His eyes darted across the room, searching frantically for Max. He breathed a silent sigh of relief as he found her, looking perfectly relaxed as she followed the wheelchair-guy and her friend into the direction of the pool table.

_What were the odds of Lydecker showing up here in this run-down bar? __Slim? Non-existant? _

Still, Zack's heart pounded, and his mouth felt suddenly dry. Automatically every single person within his field of vision was scrutinized with careful attention. Zack looked for headsets, searched faces for that serious alertness that would give away a man on a mission. **Nothing.**

The blond man passed him by inches and it took all of Zack's willpower to not turn around and face him. (_Never have your back to your enemy!_) Out of the corner of his eye, Zack saw the man take a position at the bar, only some feet away from him.

_This can't be Lydecker. No way. Your imagination is just playing tricks on you_.

Zack's heartbeat slowed down, almost to a normal rate. Almost! He forced his fists open and reached for his beer, taking a few hasty gulps that moistened his dry throat. Seconds that felt like hours ticket by, until Zack finally found the energy to risk a short glance in the blond man's direction. …

He was met by a pair of penetrating gray-blue eyes that narrowed skeptically as they settled on him.

The air in the room got suddenly thinner, lost its oxygen. It felt as if a pianist had played a wrong chord, destroying the harmony of a composition. And suddenly the noisy bar seemed to fall silent, deathly silent. The world screeched to a halt. Everybody seemed to move in slow motion, accompanied by the loud thudding of Zack's heart while the last notes of an inconsistent melody hung still in the air, leaving a bitter aftertaste.

Zack held his breath. And once again his heartbeat skyrocketed; it hammered wildly against his ribcage, thundered in his ears. Adrenalin rushed furiously through his body, and instinctively his hands curled into fists.

For a few seconds the X5 was paralyzed, while a myriad of different emotions battled inside him for dominance. His first instinct was to run, to leave the noisy bar … get out of town. He just wanted to get away from those calculating eyes; eyes that had followed him so frequently into his darkest nightmares, eyes that chilled him to the core of his being. He fought desperately to keep from being absorbed by his 11 year old self.

_You are a soldier_, his subconscious told him. _Fear accomplishes nothing._

_**Oh, shut up!**_

And finally the safe walls of callousness shot up inside Zack. He'd been trained to keep cool-headed in dangerous situations. Anger got the upper hand. His blue eyes turned cold, icy cold.

_If he makes one wrong move, I'm going to end his sorry excuse of a life … here and now … once and for all_, Zack growled inwardly. _And he won't even know what hit him_.

Zack relaxed visibly. _Maybe I'm gonna take him out of this bar first._

So far, Lydecker hadn't taken a cell phone out of his pocket, hadn't shoved a Federal Agency badge into the bartender's face. He just stood at the bar, a pondering look on his face. The glance of Zack's former commander narrowed at him again in confusion, as if searching for a piece of memory … for a connection.

Apparently he didn't find this connection. His focus shifted, gaze drawn to the row of bottles on a shelf, covering the wall behind the bar.

_He wants a drink!_ Zack realized triumphantly. _Colonel Donald Lydecker is going to lose to a drink._

A myriad of different scenarios crossed his over-active mind as he lifted his own glass for a small, measured sip of beer. He had to be careful. And the evening was probably going to get longer than expected. There had to be a way to get some information out of the Colonel. This was a possibility he had to use … a unique chance.

_Know your enemy!_

_Deception is a weapon!_

_Always use a tactical advantage!_

Manticore's favorite propaganda slogans flitted through his mind when Zack suddenly heard the rough voice of his former Commander cutting through the various noises of the bar to order a beer … sounding battered and full of self-contempt.

A new wave of triumph raced through Zack's tense body. He watched Lydecker stare at the glass for a full minute, clearly fighting the urge to drink, until he finally gave in and downed the beer, emptying the glass.

_Not what I expected_. Zack thought. And suddenly he was barely able to defeat the urge to grin …he wanted to giggle uncontrollably … and lose himself in loud, roaring laughter.

**But NO**, that wasn't him … and it wasn't the right time or place to lose his mind. And if he thought properly about it, Zack wasn't even sure he was able to really laugh about something (he wasn't supposed to lose control, after all).

A deep sadness spread out inside him - sadness for a lost childhood, for the unconcerned life he was probably never going to lead. He stared darkly into the glass of beer in front of him, wondering if he would ever be able to put Manticore behind, asking himself if his siblings were right.

And would it help to just kill Lydecker?

Probably not. Lydecker was a known variable, possibly even better known after this evening.

Zack pressed his lips together, feeling a bit disappointed. Maybe it would've been a nice relief of tension to just kill the bastard, to wipe him off the face of the earth, together with all his propaganda speeches. A wry smile tugged at Zack's lips but was quickly suppressed. Instead a plan took shape – a simple plan:

- He'd wait for a good moment to approach Lydecker.

- He'd support the Colonel's urge to get drunk, order him more beer or even stronger drinks.

- And when Lydecker was finally drunk enough he'd squeeze him for information.

_Good._

Zack's glance wandered through the run-down room again. The X5 was back. Max, the spiky-haired guy and the girl from Jam Pony were playing pool, the guy in the wheelchair now looking more relaxed than Zack had seen him since they had entered Crash.

Sketchy was approaching the bar in an odd zigzag course, his eyes stuck disbelievingly on a pink-haired girl. He seemed to be dangerously drunk now. "Damn freaks," Zack heard him mutter under his breath as he reached the bar, taking a stance between Lydecker and himself.

"They are breedin' those half-human freaks with all possible kind of DNA," Sketchy told Lydecker conversationally, his words slightly slurred. His elbow connected with the older man's shoulder. "Pimp your freak, ya know?" He grinned foolishly.

Zack pressed his lips together to keep his jaw from dropping. Was something wrong with his ears? Had the guy really said what Zack thought he'd said? He almost expected Lydecker to draw a gun and shoot Sketchy, right on the spot. Or would he grab a knife from underneath his trouser leg?

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Lydecker's eyes narrowed suspiciously at Sketchy as he emptied his second beer. "And you're drunk … fool."

_Just keep you big mouth shut, idiot_, Zack thought angrily and inched a bit closer to the mismatched pair.

"Maybe," Sketchy shrugged, unconcerned. "But I know what I'm talking about." He nodded self-importantly.

Zack felt extremely confused about the sudden unexpected turn of events and inched another two feet closer.

"Problem is, they're either hidden somewhere in a government facility …" Sketchy explained. He didn't see the angry glare of the Colonel, didn't realize that the air was suddenly getting colder. He just added with another shrug: "… or they just look like you and me, except they might have pink hair … or orange eyes … or something."

"Right," Lydecker growled.

"And where exactly are you getting this information from?" Zack chimed in quickly, drawing the glances of both men on him. He closed the remaining gap, standing besides Sketchy now.

_No way back anymore_, Zack thought as he felt the chill of Lydecker's glance on him. He didn't allow his heartbeat to speed up and fought hard to keep his hands from curling into fists. Step one of his plan was set into motion, and he wouldn't back off before he had gathered some useful information. He waved in the direction of the second barkeeper, a bulky guy in his mid-thirties.

"I'm buying," Zack offered with a half-smile, showing three fingers to place his order.

For a second he wondered what Max was doing; whether she had already seen the Colonel, or even already left the bar. But he didn't dare look into her direction, not with Lydecker around.

Admittedly, his approach hadn't been subtle but he had to keep the conversation on its current track. And considering his happy grin, at least Sketchy didn't seem to complain.

Hell, the evening had taken a completely different route than expected.

_Ending up face to face with a half-drunk Lydecker in a run down bar called "Crash", who would've thought? _

**To be continued …**

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**Reviews, thoughts, ideas - as always greatly appreciated!**

Next week: Lydecker's POV by Insane Troll Logic. Stay tuned! You'll love it. Promise!


	17. Lydecker, by Insane Troll Logic

"**The Stoner, the Blonde and the Drunkard"**  
_Lydecker's POV_  
(written by Insane Troll Logic, saved from the depths of grammatical hell by Shywr1ter)

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**Responsible drinking? Now that's an oxymoron  
**_Aaron Howard_

* * *

Donald Lydecker is not drunk.

Donald Lydecker does not get drunk.

He's got the Alcoholic's Anonymous chip to prove it. When he goes into bars, Lydecker orders water and sits quietly in the corner and watches the miscreants make fools of themselves. He doesn't touch a drop of alcohol, because that's a long, slippery slope he cannot afford sliding back down.

Which is why Donald Lydecker is certainly not sitting at the end of bar of called Crash with a couple of the aforementioned miscreants talking about government conspiracies.

One of the miscreant's beer spills as he shifts his weight, slopping the sticky brew over the cup's lip and onto Lydecker's jacket. He's a stoner-type. The same class of person Lydecker has sworn never to look at, much less grace with actual conversation. He draws his chest up, as if gathering himself for a presidential address, but blows the aura by fumbling his words. "All I'm saying is that if we're not careful, the entire world's going to be overrun by these half-human freaks."

Lydecker is slightly less embarrassed by the second miscreant's prescience. This one has a little more self-control than the first and talks at a curt, clipped pace. "Genetic engineering's science fiction."

"Besides," Lydecker says before he can stop himself, "security is too tight for another escape."

Okay, so maybe Lydecker's a little drunk.

"An escape?" The stoner pushes his greasy hair back from his face and the movement sends more beer sloshing out of his glass and onto Lydecker's jacket. "They couldn't have escaped! There would have been a sign."

"Of course there was an escape," the second guy replies. Lydecker watches him carefully. He has too-long, dirty blond hair, sharp eyes and thin, pursed lips. Lydecker mentally goes through his list of possible run-aways: can't be 442, definitely isn't 493… could be 599... "How else would that tabloid of yours get the article? If the government had done its job keeping the project covert, you wouldn't have heard a thing."

It probably isn't 599. Lydecker can't imagine Zack ever reading New World Weekly.

Besides, Zack's not the one who is supposed to be in Seattle: that's 452, Max.

He's supposed to be looking for Max, not Zack, Max who had slipped up and let her barcode be run in the classifieds of a Seattle newspaper.

He thought he'd trained her better than that.

"You a drill sergeant or something?" the stoner asks.

Did he say that out loud?

The blond's looking at him strangely.

"That's classified."

"He'd have to kill you if he told you," the blond chimes in, and maybe Lydecker is imagining it, but he sounds like he believes it.

"Whoa," the stoner breathes, and there's this long moment of absolute silence where all of Lydecker's well-honed instincts tell him to shut the hell up and get the hell out as fast as possible. "We need another round."

Lydecker doesn't drink.

He's got the Alcoholic's Anonymous chip to prove it.

Ten long years of sobriety.

"I'm buying," the blond says, and signals for the bartender.

Lydecker sits on his stool, staring blankly into his empty glass. He doesn't really remember drinking it, but knows he must have. He also knows that means something is fundamentally wrong with his current mental state, but he doesn't really care.

Renfro would have his head if she knew about this.

Then again, after the fiasco with 493, Renfro would have his head anyway.

On a platter.

Maybe with some ketchup.

He deserves the drink tonight, deserves to get so wasted he doesn't remember the night. Preferably, he would like to forget the whole week, but that might be asking just a little too much.

493, no _Ben--_one of his kids--a serial killer. Lydecker has four confirmed bodies to the count, and who knows how many he's killed without detection.

Why now? Lydecker wants to know. Why escape and wait ten years before turning to senseless killing?

He wonders what could have gone wrong.

Worse, he wonders if nothing did go wrong. If Ben has turned into exactly what Manticore had always wanted, the perfect killer: efficient, remorseless and deadly. He never wanted that for his kids. He'd always known that it was the goal, but he'd never wanted it. Not really. They were his kids.

He's always been a morose drunk. He feels like he's drowning.

(One of his kids died drowning once, an X-4, sitting there peacefully when the locks were in place and still sitting there peacefully after they came undone. She was only trying to be the best…)

"How cool would bird DNA be?" says the stoner.

"Wing would never support human weight," Lydecker mumbles. X-2 197. They'd tried it once. "If you go for the hollow bones, they can't fight, and with solid bones they can't fly. Wings are pointless. Superfluous."

"Angels in the street would cause panic," the blond says sensibly. "You can't be covert if your operatives cause a rapture."

Lydecker likes this guy. He wishes Ben would have turned out more like him, level headed and sane. He'd make a good CO.

"They'd say it was a miracle," the stoner says.

"And later," the blond replies, "they'd forget the whole thing ever happened. The world doesn't want miracles."

What Lydecker really needs is a miracle.

He needs to find one of the 09ers so he can save his job and get his kids back where they belong so that they all don't turn out like Ben. Renfro demands progress, and Lydecker's last (and only) lead on Ben had sent him to a guy who possibly could have been Ben--if Ben was fifteen years older and had a younger brother.

It had been an elaborate hoax; the double Ben had found was so convincing that Lydecker could have sworn it was another case of progeria. Even the fingerprints had matched. Lydecker was so sure he'd finally found Ben, sure he would finally be able to tie up one of his life's biggest loose ends.

But Ben always had been good at escape and evade. Not like Max, but still very good.

Max again. This all came back to Max. Max in Seattle with her barcode exposed in the classifieds like a neon flashing sign that says she's up for grabs. If he doesn't get to her first, some foreign government will and Lydecker knows life at Manticore is better than life at the Taiwanese military base. He's only got her best interest at heart.

"Well," slurs the stoner loudly, "it was a pleasure talking with you two." He claps an overly friendly hand on Lydecker's shoulders and the unexpected force of it propels his head dangerously close to the bar. He counts seven empty glasses. He fervently hopes they're not all his.

"I will be taking your advice about those evasion t-tech-" the stoner says, stumbling over the word, "techniques. And Sam…" he pauses, belches. "You really need a hair cut."

"Boy has a drinking problem," Lydecker mutters to the blond. "He needs to get in the program."

"You can't honestly be pimping Alcoholic's Anonymous when you're on your eighth beer of the night."

Eight? He'd counted only seven.

Lydecker tries counting again and comes up with nine. Which is troublesome to say the least.

He may be in the throes of a relapse.

"What brings you to Seattle?" Lydecker says, smoothly changing the subject. _Got to keep the enemy on their toes. _ He taught his kids that. For propaganda, it was pretty damn good advice.

The blond frowns at him, mouth pursed, eyebrows knotted together. "Family," he says finally, "you?"

"It's always family, isn't it?" Lydecker's mouth says before he gives it permission to speak. "My kids disappeared way back in '09 and with the Pulse, I never was able to track them down. This is the first solid lead I've had in years."

Except, of course, for Ben and his trail of corpses. But admitting that one of his kids is a serial killer isn't something Lydecker is willing to tell a complete stranger.

No matter how drunk he is.

"I hope you find them," the blond says through clenched teeth.

Lydecker knows he's lying, but his alcohol-addled brain can't come up with a single reason he would have to lie.

He wonders, not for the first time of that night, what he's doing in this bar. He's got work to do. Important work.

He has to find Max soon, before Renfro decides to serve his head up on a platter or someone (probably Zack) finds that clip in the newspaper and slams Lydecker's recovery efforts shut with a crack that would break more than a few fingers.

Still, he hopes Vooselog (Vigglsic? Vogglisul? Vogelsang? He never could remember that damn PI's name) doesn't make contact with the subject tonight. He doesn't want to have to explain his current state to any of his men. "Finding them would be a miracle if there ever was one," Lydecker says under his breath.

"Murphy's Law," the blond says, nodding. "What can and will go wrong. You always seem to get more than you bargain for."

"To half truths," Lydecker declares, raising a glass in toast, "and messy business. May someone wise up and hire us a maid."

The blond is laughing at him. It's an oddly foreign sound, coming out in little measured barks that never sound out of control and never really sounds like laughter.

Lydecker can definitely relate.

"If there weren't so many witnesses," the blond says, suddenly deadly serious, "I'd take you out back and put you out of your misery. A snapped neck or maybe a bullet to the head."

Lydecker stares.

Then he laughs and after a second, the blond's not-quite-a-chuckle starts up again.

A loud thud comes from the other end of the club and they both turn to see the stoner from earlier passed out on a pool table.

"Murphy's law," says the blond.

"Survival of the fittest," says Lydecker.

"Same for everyone," the blond says, "one of Sketchy's genetic freaks or not. The only luck out there is bad luck."

Except for the guy in the wheelchair who has the prettiest girl in the room on his arm and Max out there somewhere, free and undetected, at least for tonight.

"I think I'm drunk," Lydecker says finally.

The blond looks strangled for a long moment, as if waging some colossal internal war. Then he says, "I'll call you a cab."

Lydecker doesn't accept charity from strangers. Not since that time in Milwaukee when he'd accepted a colleague's ride home only to have it turn into an assassination attempt. (Lydecker leaves no survivors).

But then again, Lydecker doesn't talk about his work (ever); he doesn't associate with the kind of miscreants who spend the day getting wasted…

And Lydecker certainly doesn't drink.

Today… well, today just doesn't count.

Besides, with how much he didn't drink, odds are he won't remember in the morning.

* * *

_And next week, we've got more __**Murray**__ by __**Mari83**__. At least, I think we do…_


	18. Murray 2 , by Mari83

_**A/N**_: Thanks to Shywr1ter for catching mistakes, mis-phrasing and misinformed conspiracy-plotting. All remaining mistakes are mine.

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"_**There are no secrets better kept than the secrets that everybody guesses."**_  
George Bernard Shaw _(1856 - 1950)_

**Murray, the bartender, part II, by Mari83**

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If it hadn't been for the strangers, Murray's job might have had the easy familiarity of a neighborhood bar. But this was the Post-Pulse World where nothing was stable anymore, where people prowled from place to place, looking for a better life or only for a little fun. There were the lucky homeless who after a good day of begging went from bar to bar to banish Seattle's wet cold from their bones with the numbing warmth of a beer, or the truckers who exchanged the loneliness and oppressive silence of a dingy hotel room for the illusion of company and the professional patience of a bartender.

Everyone was different, had another story to tell…. but after years and years of listening to tales of loss and downfall, the rough voices and pale, scratchy faces had started to mingle into one single picture of hopelessness.

There was something odd, though, with the both men who had appeared today, those two loners sitting over their glasses in brooding oblivion to the noisy partying around them. Neither was just the ordinary stranger…He couldn't tell what it was…. but something in their behavior triggered his internal alarm, trained by years of singling out troublemakers, and urged him to give them more attention than the trucker with the 'I love mom' tattoo to their left.

It wasn't anything in their appearance or their clothes, even though they were a bit neater than those of the average customer, but something more subtle, picked up by his usually dead-on gut feeling. It screamed at him that those two guys were military. It was more obvious with the younger man, the one he named 'the soldier' because of his alert stance, atlethic body and the way he had crossed the room with accurately measured steps. Now he was sitting at the bar with a tight posture that contrasted with the comfortably slumping figures around him.

All this, the straight, tight posture and observant alertness, marked the other guy's behavior too, even though he didn't mirror the soldier's 'ready to fight'-stance. Murray assumed that he had moved up the ranks and now was something like a sergeant… and seemingly not a very lucky one at the moment, judging from his dark expression and his presence in such an unmilitary establishment as Crash.

Murray hadn't even the tiniest clue to prove it, but from the beginning there seemed to be some kind of connection between both men, even though they hadn't acknowledged the other's presence at all. Had they come in together, he might have placed them as father and son with the one of them in his early twenties, the other in his late forties, each with the shared physical traits of a lean figure, blue eyes and blonde hair.

As much as the soldier had tried to hide it, as well as he'd succeeded in controlling his expression after only a second of surprise, there had been short slip-up of stunned recognition shifting through his otherwise perfectly composed face, as if the sergeant was not all that welcome a figure from a long ago past.

The same brief flash of déjà vu had been displayed in older men's eyes too, even though less accentuated. For some seconds he had given the younger one that uncertain, pondering look reserved for finding a familiar trait in a stranger's face. But unlike the soldier, who seemed to be sure of having met an old acquaintance, that look of recognition vanished just as soon as it had come as the sergeant turned all his attention to a yearning study of Crash's pitifully short list of beverages.

Maybe all he was seeing was a family drama, a drinking father having destroyed his family years ago, and a son now searching for reunion. But he doubted it. There was something else going on between those two, something more… sinister, mysterious that went beyond the normal father-son dynamic. Suspicion, anger, cool calculation… and perhaps even the tiniest inkling of fear, they all battled for domination in the soldier's eyes as he observed the sergeant with a cautious wariness. It was carefully hidden under a nonchalant disinterest that probably still would have attracted the older man's attention if he hadn't been so involved in his battle with the alluring powers of booze and whatever gloomy memories it had brought.

As he served a tequila to a skull-decorated punk-girl, Murray observed how the young man noticed the other's yearning gaze to the row of mostly empty bottles at the back wall of the bar, a look which he'd long learned to read as the sign of another AA member falling off the wagon.

The sergeant resisted for a good while, his internal fight almost invisible under a stony mask of professional calm. Finally, though, he gave in to the temptation and ordered a beer which was regarded solemnly for a minute. There was a strange gleam of triumph, briefly revealing an inexplicable personal revenge in the soldier's eyes when the other finally lifted the glass. He downed it with barely measured haste, his tight expression suddenly relaxing into the blissful one of a desert-traveller who'd finally found a well satisfying his maddening thirst.

The glass wasn't even empty before, with a wave of his raised hand, he ordered another one, ignoring the questioning look of the bartender who had escorted too many drunks to a bed of humid dirt in Crash's back-alley after closing the doors for the night.

When Murray turned back to them after half an hour of being occupied with a bachelor party drinking as if this was their last day on earth, the older guy already had lined up a neat row of four empty glasses before him in military precision, and had been joined by the lanky Jam Pony messenger and wannabe journalist, Sketchy. Even the soldier-type had inched closer and together they were fervently discussing Sketchy's favorite topic, one now reserved for random strangers ever since his friends had repeatedly dismissed him with a groaned, eye-rolling 'use your brain idiot': conspiracy theories.

As he handed the older guy another beer, Murray had to oppress a sigh, which settled somewhere in between amusement and resignation at Sketchy's childlike enthusiasm, together with the strong but socially unacceptable desire to smack some sense into the boy's pot-fogged head.

With a resigned internal groan Murray took the dishtowel to proceed with the Sisyphus-task of cleaning glasses, his attention switching into 'orders only' mode. He didn't expect to learn anything new or even faintly interesting from their conversation. Over the years he'd heard pretty much every conspiracy theory that had ever existed, the stories getting wilder with each new round of drinks, that were as fantasy-inspiring as intellect-numbing…There was the crazy one claiming the Pulse was caused by the collision of a dying sun and a bulging black hole somewhere on the other end of the universe, another one declaring that the Space needle was an alien antenna tower slowly turning them all into mind and will-less creatures, or – his personal favorite – the one of the vegetable monopoly planning the downfall of mankind by depriving the public of meat.

The one they had today, though, was rather new: a secret government institution creating super soldiers and cooking up chimeras by throwing together a wild mix of animal and human genetics. Yeah, right, and he was just serving peanuts and beer to Eyes Only. However, as whacky the idea sounded to him, ever since it had been picked up by some tabloids a few weeks before, it was circulating with the same bush-fire speed as did all those crazy theories which fed people's hunger for every bit of entertaining gossip, and each one easy scapegoat for their misery.

For all Murray knew, these three were just harmless maniacs indulging in an amiable discussion of the conspiracy of the day. However, that strange, tickling feeling irking him ever since those two strangers had entered still was there, hadn't eased in the least, and it moved him to listen to their absurdities of classified information and winged angel-soldiers after all.

There was something odd here, not with Sketchy, who after all was just his usual goofy self, nor with the drunken sergeant, whose intoxicated condition legitimated his part in this discussion of utter nonsense… No, it was the soldier who didn't fit into the picture. Murray would have bet a day's pay that the soldier would have resolutely denied the military's involvement in any evilness whatsoever, even more so such a crazy scheme.

To his surprise, however, he did not only join their conversation in a tone carrying only the tiniest bit of amusement at Sketchy's eagerness, but even seemed to want the sergeant to participate. He actively tried to loosen the sergeant's tongue by assuring a constant refill of the older one's glasses with a repeated, inconspicuous but unmistakable nod to the bartender, who could only follow his orders with a questioning look to the soldier and a warning stare to the sergeant. It was as if this talk about secret government operations was a secret code between those two, revealing an underlying urgency completely lost on Sketchy who was happily chatting along with his newly found fellow conspirators.

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	19. Sketchy, by Lisa0316

**Advisement: This installment of Writer's Pulse is rated a strong T because of Sketchy's profane language and sexually inappropriate horndog ideas and is not intended for younger audiences or the easily offended.**

**Random and Illusive Thoughts Pulled Directly from the Alcohol Addled Mind of Theodore Calvin While He Partied the Night Away at Crash**

By lisa0316

_"**You're not drunk if you can lie on the floor without holding on."**__**-**__** Joe E. Lewis**_

_xXx_

_Today was a good day. Got paid today…not too many assholes at work…Normal bitching at me less than usual…nobody threatened to kill me…shared a high-quality holy sacrament with Herbal…a good day. You gotta celebrate a good day, 'cause they don't happen enough. Gotta make 'em last, ya know? Go out, hang with your friends, maybe have a drink or two…_

_Some days aren't so good. Most days, my life pretty much bites. But today was pretty good._

_I love this place. Crash is a good place to hang. All my friends are here, tasty females to look at, good tunes, cold beer that's not too watered down…Stuff here doesn't break too easy. That's good. I like it when things don't break. You wanna do a 720 off the bar onto the foosball table, they're cool with that. You have to appreciate an establishment that's cool with that._

_That's why I like to hang here. All my friends are here, like my best friend Murray. An exceptional fellow, Murray. He pours the drinks. He doesn't judge, he just pours. I like that about him. I like good days. They're not all good days._

_I'm not a particularly happy man. I'm not necessarily pleased with the way my life has turned out. I don't know, maybe it'd be better if I knew what I wanted to do with my life. It's not like I grew up wanting to be a bike messenger for some anal retentive pain in the ass who probably writes his name inside his underwear, but you gotta do what you gotta do, right? There's not much out there for a regular guy like me. _

_I bet he really does write his name inside his underwear. Normal is such a tool._

_That's me: a regular guy. I was an average kid, hanging out with my friends, doing what kids do. Then the fucking Pulse hit the year I started high school. Majorly fucked everything up. I mean, what was the point of finishing school? There weren't any jobs out there if you did. One push of a button screwed an entire generation over._

_But I won't be down forever. The Sketchmeister is destined for something great…someday. I won't be working for that ass-hat forever. I'll build something or invent something or discover something. Yeah. One of these days I'll find the next big thing and make all kinds of bank and all my problems will go away. And I'll tell Normal to kiss my ass, and I'll buy whatever I want whenever I want it. Greatness will find me._

'_Till then, here I am…_

_Here at the bar with my new best friend, blond guy…What's blond guy's name again? I don't know blond guy's name, do I? But blond guy is my new best friend because blond guy likes to buy drinks…lots of drinks…lots and lots of drinks for me and my other new best friend, old guy. What's old guy's name again? Do I know old guy's name? Donnie…Donnie the old guy…old guy Donnie, my new best friend…and blond guy._

_Man, old guy is way more wasted then I am…_

_Old guy's smart, man. He knows about genetic experimentation. Nobody believes me, but it's true. They take human DNA and mix it up with animal DNA to make these freaky people with superpowers, and then the government is using them to create a perfect army that can enslave us all, and they play with their minds and make them all psychic and super-smart, and mess with their biochemistry so they have special powers in their blood. Sometimes the experiments go wrong and they create these genetic mutants that they just lock away somewhere. Man, I wonder if they know that the original DNA sample came from aliens. Most people don't realize that last part. _

_I should tell old guy so he can be on the lookout. It's not safe out there with these monsters roaming the streets, they're even more dangerous than the vegetarians. If I ever found one of those freaks I would totally kick its ass. Freaky transgenic animal alien mutant freaks._

_Oh, hey Max is here. Cool. _

_Max has the greatest ass I've ever seen on a chick…Max would totally kick my ass if she knew I was thinking about her ass…She's strong for a chick, she must do yoga or something. _

_Chicks with tattoos are just way hotter than other chicks. Max has a cool tat. That barcode, like she's for sale or something. Maybe she wants people to check her out...hehe…check her out…get it? Check her out? That's pretty good, gotta tell her that one. She'll love that one. Hey, I'd totally buy her. I'll tell her that too, she'll love it. Maybe I should get a tattoo…I would if it weren't for the fact that the FBI secretly alters tattoo ink to emit low levels of radiation that can be monitored with special equipment so they could spy on people and track their movements. Just another way for 'The Man' to keep tabs on the disenfranchised youth of America. It's fucked up, man. _

_I wonder if Max has any tattoos I've never seen. Yeah, maybe on her ass or something…Max has the greatest ass I've ever seen on a chick…_

_She's here with some guy. It's been awhile since we've seen Max here with a guy. Max is so hot…She's kinda weird, though. She's weird and she's hot and she's strong. And she's with a guy…good for her…You Go, Girl! _

_Hey, I know that guy…where do I know that guy from? Lucky bastard. That must be the Logan guy that Max and Cindy are always talking about. Man, what does a guy have to do to get it on with a hot chick like Max? Oh, that's right…he's rich. Rich guys always get the hot chicks. I'm gonna be rich someday. I just need to find my angle. Opportunity is everywhere, you just need to find it. Someday. Man, I know that guy! Why do I feel like I know that guy? He reminds me of somebody…_

_I dunno._

_There's Original Cindy…I like Original Cindy. She's…original, ya know? And she's a good friend…always got your back… there if you need her…She has a great ass too. I'd totally do her in a second. Her and Max together. Oh, yeah, that's what I'm talking about...Max would totally kick my ass if she knew I was thinking about doing her and Original Cindy together…Max is really strong for a chick._

_And what is Sister Cindy up to this fine evening? Oh. Oh. Oh, she's kissing that hot blond girl! Sweet! Sweet! Sweet! Sweet! Sweet! Sweet! Sweet! I would give anything I own to be in the middle of that right now! Anything! Oh, that would be so sweet! I should ask Natalie if she'd be into that. Did I ask her that once before? Think I did…Maybe that was the night she left to go sleep at her mother's…yeah, that was it…maybe it's time to bring it up again…Yeah…I'll ask her when I get home…That would be so sweet._

_Max is looking at me like I just scared the shit out of her. What's up with that? That hurts, Max. Don't look at me like that, I didn't do anything to you. Why is Max looking at me like I just scared the shit out of her? Max is weird sometimes…She can do weird stuff…and she knows weird things…and she isn't scared of anything, man. Wait…She's scared of me…DONT LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT, MAX! Why is she trying to hide her face from me? Give it up, Max, I know what you look like. Duh…_

_Man, I'm tired. When did they put a bed in Crash? I don't remember there being a bed here before, I thought there was a pool table here. Where the fuck did the pool table go? You know the world has gone to hell when somebody steals your pool table. Well, the bed is a damn fine replacement, if I do say so myself. Many's the time that I thought there should be beds at Crash! Glad somebody finally appreciates my genius. _

_Beds in bars…I bet I could make a lot of money with that idea, 'cept it looks like somebody else came up with it first. Again. _

_Man, Will I ever be able to catch a break? _

Next week, more Max!

Thanks for reading...


	20. Max 5, by Shywr1ter

**Disclaimer:** No ownership of characters or DA; no profits made.

_xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxooxoxoxoxoxoxo_

**"DIVING IN"**

_The Crash Challenge_, _Max POV 5, by Shywr1ter_

"﻿A friend is one that knows you as you are, understands where you have been, accepts what you have  
become, and still, gently allows you to grow."

William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

_xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxooxoxoxoxoxoxo_

_Okay – phase one accomplished, Logan's here in one piece. Now how do I get him to just kick back and chill?_

Max had followed Logan into Crash, watching him try to handle his discomfort even after Cindy had ambled up and started chattering away at him as they hung there at the bar. Cindy didn't let his awkwardness throw her, but she was all but doing a monologue, with one syllable grunts or nods from Logan his only response. Not that Max was saying much, either, but this evening was for Logan to unwind and get to know the crowd at Crash. _She _wasn't the one who was supposed to be doing the talking...

_C'mon, Logan, you know Original Cindy already, loosen up!_ Max's earlier sympathy with his discomfort was wearing thin, her lack of control in the moment leading her to exasperation that he wasn't just going with it. Between the tension she felt in showing Logan an important part of her life he hadn't seen yet – and at which he might just be looking down his aristocratic nose, amid the grimy, noisy room full of those less driven than he – and the discomfort she felt with the biker who'd followed them from Sector Nine, Max was feeling a short-tempered nervousness that in turn left her frustrated that Logan couldn't just be a normal guy for once and enjoy the crappy beer. _What did you do for fun, Logan, back before you were tapped by the gods to save the world? Or did you ever hear of that word, 'fun?'_

She was so close to biting off his head for not relaxing that she'd drawn a breath to do just that, when she saw a now-familiar form come in through the front door. _The giant-helmeted Ducati rider! _She looked him over quickly, surprised with a sudden, odd sense that he looked familiar, but not quite. Her instant memory for faces and places didn't allow that feeling often, and she frowned, trying to place him. _Here, before? Unlikely. A delivery?_ No, he'd look fully familiar if so, and it wouldn't give her this uneasy feeling of déjà vu...

Giant-head, now carrying the helmet rather than wearing it, paused only briefly at the top of the stairs to look around, unhurried and relaxed, before he came down the steps into the bar. His eyes had passed their way but went on, without recognition. _Okay, are you just good at what you do, or did you really not make Logan?_ Max's thoughts asked him. But he headed straight for the other end of the bar and ordered a beer. _Make that either sloppy, or no mission for you,_ she amended. Anyone who would drink even this weak a beer on a mission wouldn't be Manticore and wouldn't be much of a mercenary. Once she saw him actually down half the mug in one large gulp, even seeming to offer a private little toast and a grin to himself, she relaxed a little. She wouldn't lose him but decided he probably wasn't going to be a threat, after all. _He's a nice enough looking guy; maybe he's just slumming for a new shortie._ The way Logan talked about his family and the trust fund crowd in Sector Nine, it probably meant that he was an okay guy after all, to get out of the tight-ass part of town and come down here for a beer.

With that, she looked back to her 'guest' and the conversation in front of her. She could see that despite his nervousness, Logan really _was_ trying to talk with Cindy, even now as the crowded bar left him and his chair exposed to people teetering over him with three and four pitchers in each fist, others banging into a wheel as they rounded the bar too abruptly, still others jostling into him from more than one angle, all several feet above him. Guilt for her frustration with him and for asking him here filled her, and Max suddenly wondered how she could suggest they just leave now, before he was doused in beer. _This was a stupid idea, Max,_ she realized, _for all kinds of reasons..._

...but before she could even think up an excuse, Cindy had taken charge – again. "Hey, Logan, you play pool?" she asked him. Max could see it; Cindy had sized up Logan's discomfort and, in a manner that in no way would even hint that she was bailing him out, was going to get him out of the worst and over to a more comfortable corner of the room.

"I haven't in awhile." With her question, Logan suddenly seemed less uncomfortable, still not _relaxed_, but the mention of pool had gotten his attention. He was interested, more focused, Max could see, not just overwhelmed in the surroundings as he'd been...

"Good, because Original Cindy likes to win." Max watched as, just as comfortable as she always was, as if it was OC, not her, who hung with Logan every day, her best friend looped her arm around Logan's shoulder and led him off to a pool table. "It ain't no fun playing with Max," she was saying to him, expansively, making it sound as if it was all about her. " Girl's too damn coordinated for her own good if you ask me."

Logan had glanced back at her, maybe to see her reaction, but was quite willingly going along with Cindy, clearly comfortable with her if not in his surroundings, as if he trusted her right away.

_Well, who wouldn't be? _Max thought._ OC was so comfortable with him, with everyone, people in general ... maybe I __**am**__ a fogbank. Would it be easier with Logan if I could just relax and be that comfortable with him, too?_

She watched the pair threading through the crowd, and as Logan took another look over his shoulder to look back for her, Max kicked herself to move in behind them.

_...you're not Uncomfortable,_ she told herself stubbornly. _Just..._

Her thoughts faded as she watched Cindy smoothly offer, then take, the break as Logan tried in vain to fade into a corner. His keen eyes watched Cindy's moves closely, though, and his quick glances took in every shot. When Cindy finally missed one, Logan carefully lined up, still seeming as if he felt a little hampered in knowing just how to approach the table from his chair. Once set, though, his first shot, crisp and clean, made the first ball drop easily. A small, pleased flash of a smile flickered quickly across his lips, and his second shot, full of confidence now, was just as quickly in the hole.

_He __**was**__ relaxing,_ Max marveled...

And with it, so was she. As Logan seemed to actually start enjoying himself, Max found herself smiling a little. So the great Eyes Only had actually come around to kickin' it with her peeps? _This might even mean a reassessment of things ... _

Max's eyes had followed Logan appreciatively as he worked the table, but this time when he shot, the ball spun powerfully across the table to bank off and bear down on another striped ball, popping it smartly into the cup. "Nice shot," she reacted immediately, without thought. His green eyes rose to hers with a grin that was half amused, half relieved. She found herself smiling back...

_Maybe we don't need to leave just yet, after all,_ she thought. She watched the game almost silently, admiring Cindy's comfort in herself and ease with Logan, and wondered again how much of Logan's apparent reticence around her wasn't just his own pissiness, but what he felt from _her_. _Even Cindy has seen it; she just excuses it,_ Max remembered. _So how do I learn to be as good with people as Cindy is? _

It didn't have to be _people,_ Max realized, _not to start. Maybe just with Logan... _

Cindy started in on an outlandish claim, saying tradition was that the winner buys. _Did she really think Logan would believe it?_ Max continued to watch the pair and realized that, more likely, Cindy knew he'd never believe it but would go along with it, even catching that they would each know precisely what the other was thinking -- and would know that the other was on to them. Max watched her best friend in a whole new light, her skill at playing all street and cocky masking what she was doing at the moment, making _Max's _guest feel at ease in their hangout, doing what she herself should be doing in making Logan feel at home. _First the game, then hustling beer, now Cindy's even prompting Logan to admire the shortie she's been lusting after all week!_ Eyebrows shooting up at her words, Max looked to Logan immediately to see his reaction to _that_ – and was amazed to see his initial surprise melt into amusement and a good natured discussion of pick-up technique...

_I've seen Logan nearly every day now for several weeks – and Cindy spent one lousy afternoon with him. Yet she knows him better, reads him better, than I do, and has gotten him to respond in a way I never could, even to enjoy being played. He probably sees what's she doing and appreciates it, too. Damn..._

As the game went on, Max managed to cheer at the right time, occasionally casting an eye toward the bar where big-head was tossing back Crash's thin beer, and marveled again and again at Cindy's smooth manner.

_Remember to thank her, Max, _her inner voice lectured, _and to tell her what a great person she is ... even __**you**__ can do that, and it's about time you do..._

"Eight ball, corner." Logan's announcement that he'd just made the game brought Max back to earth, just as he beamed up to the two women with him. "Looks like I just won the privilege of buying you a drink."

"Why don't you go order up a pitcher of beer and find us a table in the back," Cindy directed, smoothly, not waiting for a response before moving to grab Max's arm. "We'll meet you in a minute. We have to go to the ladies' room."

"We do?" Max suddenly got cold feet. With the way Cindy had been manipulating Logan's behavior all evening, Max got the sneaking suspicion that Cindy was ready to start in on _her._ One look at Cindy's determined expression confirmed it for her. She let Cindy drag her across the bar, but only to a point where she could still see Ducati-boy. Determined not to give in as easily as Logan had, Max took the offensive. "What's up with you?" she began.

"Now Original Cindy knows she was right. It's just like I keep telling you. That boy is so into you. You and Waspy should seriously consider hookin' up and knockin' boots. It'd do you both some good." Max rolled her eyes, knowing it had been coming. She tried yet again to tell Cindy they weren't like that but her friend wouldn't hear it. "Girl, he tracks you," Cindy insisted.

Max stopped short at that, not getting it. Cindy was happy to explain, running away with some analogy about her being, for Logan, like a beer for Sketchy. But, making her point, Cindy nodded toward the table Logan had commandeered and demanded, "just look at him."

She did -- and found a pair of intelligent, hopeful, green eyes watching her closely. Or, watching her until he saw her look back at him. He immediately dropped his gaze, pretending to study something riveting at the bar.

"Face it, Boo, you move his furniture."

"Oh, come on, Cindy, we're just friends," Max tried yet again. "I barely know him. Besides, we're the only ones here he knows – and we left him sitting there by himself. What do you want him to do?" Cindy just rolled her eyes, crossed her arms and looked bored, again apparently tuning her out. "We don't have that kind of relationship."

"Whatever you want to tell yourself, Boo." Cindy turned to make her way back to the table, and Max followed behind, wondering if Cindy was actually getting tired of her attempts to explain her relationship with Logan. _I guess it __**is**__ hard to get what's up with us, for someone on the outside. It's hard enough for me to figure it out._ As Max was yet again trying to rationalize her relationship with Logan, Cindy excused herself to him and walked off, saying nothing more to Max. Feeling a faint hurt at Cindy's sudden reaction, Max wondered, m_aybe she's getting tired of trying._ Staring after her best friend for several moments, she glanced down at Logan, who was now watching her with mild concern.

"Anything wrong?" he tried.

"Oh. No..." she stalled, and sat. "I think Cindy just wants to make that move on her hottie, that's all." She could see he wasn't buying it totally, so she tried redirecting his thoughts. "But what's with you and pool? Holding out on me? I never thought that the Cales would hang out in the neighborhood pool room."

"No, but as they do with a lot of things, when the snootier types find something they want to try that they think is beneath them, they hang a fancy label on it to make it fashionable and worthy of them. Macaroni and cheese is beneath them, so they 'invented' fettucini alfredo. They'd never hang out in a pool room, but they have billiard rooms in their homes and billiard tables at the club – close enough to pool to let me win beer money at school."

Max found herself grinning. He did that to her. And when he was more comfortable like this, spinning stories, even over weak beer rather than his expensive pre-Pulse wine, he _did_ seem to enjoy her company. She certainly enjoyed his...

They talked about nothing and everything, forgettable topics in a night she'd remember for a while. It wasn't all that many minutes after Cindy left that Herbal and Druid wandered up and helped themselves to what was left in their pitcher, falling into easy conversation with Logan. To her amazement, Logan seemed immediately to understand Herbal's Rasta-speak, something even she took a little time assimilating. _Logan Cale, man of many, many talents..._

"This table needs a refill," she announced, seeing that Logan was actually now engaged and interested in the discussion that had started among the men about the latest crack-down by the sector cops. She didn't let her smile fully develop until her back was to the table, pleased with the way things had been going...

"Another pitcher, Murray?" Max came up to the end of the bar and waited as the busy bartender picked up her pitcher and turned back to the tap. As she dug some bills from her pocket, Max noted with that Big Helmet was still at the bar, and now in conversation with Sketchy – or rather, was captive to another of Sketchy's conspiracy theories. At least one of them recently had made her uncomfortable, sounding too close to what had gone on at Manticore to make her happy. _Less theory, more fact there, Sketch_, she thought...

Suddenly a third man leaned back from where he'd huddled over his drink and spat his reaction to the stoner logic Sketchy was offering – and his voice made her blood run cold. A voice she knew as well as anyone's, one she'd heard only twice in the past decade, but each time, knew that her safety was so close to being compromised...

She looked over to see the hated form of Lydecker as he barked his derision of Sketchy's claims, and took a step back, turning toward the door and ready to run, as she had before –

_Logan._

It was different this time. She couldn't run, not like before.

Logan was _here_ in Crash, just as vulnerable to Lydecker as she was; she'd brought him here and although he might not be in danger from Lydecker, he _might_, if somehow Lydecker had recognized her and had made the connection between them. And no matter his apparent innocence, the Sector Nine motorcycle guy was still here, too...

...and staring at her.

And as he stared, Lydecker seemed to notice his stare, and began to turn to look, too, to see what had the boy so interested. At that, Max felt herself tense. As she started to turn, however, the Ducati-guy was even faster – in a clearly intentional move, made to look like a clumsy grab for the bowl of peanuts, he bumped Lydecker's nearly full beer so it cascaded over the rim and all over his front. In his apologies to the sputtering Colonel, the stranger's eyes lifted to her for only a flicker of an instant – but seemed to meet hers in a look of conspiratorial understanding. Wasting no time, Max grabbed the pitcher that Murray had placed before her and headed back to the table.

"Logan, it's 10:20," she announced brightly, placing the pitcher in front of the men. "You made me promise to remind you." Without looking to Logan, knowing he'd be staring at her in confusion, Max drew Druid and Herbal's attention to explain," it's his great aunt in Europe, a zillion time zones away – it's her birthday, and he's got to call her first thing on her special morning... You know, he's her favorite nephew, blah blah..."

"In Belgium, actually," Logan jumped in, playing along, clearly with no idea why. "Thanks, Max. We'd better get going." He didn't rush things but shook hands all around, assuring Herbal and Druid in brief but unhurried words he'd enjoyed their talk, handling Max's abrupt announcement with aplomb. Once he turned to leave she led the way across Crash toward the alley exit, keeping her face down and shielding herself from the bar as much as she could without looking obvious, using a few backward glances to Logan as an excuse to turn away further.

Hand on the door handle, she glanced again to Logan and saw that he finally looked to her in question. She smiled. She'd worry about what story to tell him once they'd made it outside...

_**More to come!**_


	21. Logan 5, by lilmouse

The Crash Challenge: Logan's POV 5

Author's Note: My thanks to the Writer's Pulse Group, without whom this story would just be a cool idea that never came to fruition. There's been a lot of great creativity here, folks.

And thank you, Shywr1ter, for giving this the once over and posting it on my behalf.

Cheers!

Mouse :)

**Trial By Fire**

By lilmouse 

"_**True love is friendship – caught on fire."**_

_Unknown_

He checked his watch once they were through the back entrance and in Crash proper: 9:20. Running later than they'd planned but Max didn't seem bothered by it. He noticed Original Cindy separate herself from the crowd and approach, as if she'd been watching for them. And maybe she had been. Logan shrugged mentally. It would figure that Cindy would be in on his visit if Max wanted to be sure he would feel more comfortable. At least he _knew_ Cindy. She was a good friend for Max and he had witnessed the woman's loyalty with that whole prison incident. He could handle 'hanging' with Original Cindy for an evening.

It took a few minutes but they made it to the bar. He tried to relax but was still on edge about being here. The bartender was the same one Logan had talked to on that day he'd tracked Max down - _how long ago was it? Four months now?_ The guy didn't raise an eyebrow at the wheelchair. He took the orders with a smile and an efficiency that would put bartenders at more posh locations to shame. It was crowded, which wasn't unexpected, but there were so many people, running the full spectrum of cultural and economic backgrounds.

And he had to look _up_ at all of them.

He knew he was running his free hand along his leg. It was a nervous gesture he'd acquired along with the chair and the special parking spot. His palms were sweaty and he hated his own reaction. He wasn't this nervous sitting in his car at the docks at two-in-the-morning, running a trace on a wire tap he had set up on a drug dealer.

_Damn._

"Hey, Logan, you play pool?"

Original Cindy had spoken - well, shouted a bit. On the large screen behind her, another racecar crashed into the barrier and a group of viewers roared their approval or dismay, money changing hands.

"I haven't in a while," he answered noncommittally. He'd envisioned this possibility but was still surprised that it might actually occur. Cindy smirked, her eyes challenging. She wasn't mocking him at all. He guessed she'd noticed his discomfort and was trying to give him something to focus on.

"Good, because Original Cindy likes to win." She hooked her arm around Logan's shoulder and started leading him to a pool table. He quickly placed his glass between his legs and used both hands to wheel himself across the floor. No one was going to push Logan Cale. "It ain't no fun playing with Max," she continued amiably, as if they were old friends. Cindy was good at this whole 'embrace the moment' philosophy he'd heard Bling mention. "Girl's too damn coordinated for her own good, if you ask me." Logan glanced over his shoulder to see if the 'girl' in question was following. Max smiled at him and he managed to smile before returning to the task of negotiating the furniture.

Didn't stop him from looking back a few times, just to be sure.

Cindy racked the balls and handed Logan a pool cue. "You wanna break?"

The fingers of the man who shot me in the spine? Absolutely.

Logan gave a small shrug. He placed the cue across his lap and wheeled himself into the corner away from the crowd. He locked the brakes and took another sip of his beer. "You go ahead," he indicated to her with a small wave of his hand.

"Aiight." Cindy leaned over the table to break, sinking one solid. She lined up her second shot and smiled as she landed that one, too. It appeared that the lady knew what she was doing when it came to pool: another aspect of the evening that wasn't a complete surprise to Logan. Her third shot was a miss, and she stepped back from the table to make room for him.

Running a positive mantra in his head that sounded suspiciously like something 'The Little Engine That Could' would be saying in regards to a steep hill, Logan drained half his beer in a long swallow and placed his glass on a nearby table. His throat felt better already. He unlocked his brakes and wheeled closer, studying the table with the strategist's approach he'd implemented during his college years. It worked with chess so why not pool? He'd been a force to be reckoned with back then and had made a bit of money playing with his frequently over-confident classmates.

Let's see if you've still got it, Cale.

He turned his chair parallel to the table and lined up his first shot. He was aware that Max and Cindy were simultaneously leaning closer and seemed to be holding their breath. He allowed himself a small grin and he sunk his first ball with ease. His peripheral vision caught Cindy's raised eyebrow and Max's smile but he pretended not to see it. _Don't get distracted or you'll lose._ He moved around the table to make his second shot, which also caused the ball to roll smoothly into the pocket. He followed with a more complicated bank shot that succeeded in taking another striped ball from the table. Both Cindy and Max seemed impressed.

"Nice shot!" Max called out. Logan gave her a small smile before moving on to take aim again. Yet another ball left the table. He leaned back in the chair and allowed his smile to grow as he reached for his glass. _Take no prisoners, Cale. _

"Damn! Rich boys can play pool! And here I thought you was all about water polo an' badminton an' all that." Logan laughed and shook his head. "Original Cindy stands corrected. Did Max explain to you how we play here? How the winner always buys the next round of drinks?"

Logan pursed his lips and frowned slightly, knowing he was being had and letting it happen. "Winner buys?" he asked, playing along by pretending to be confused. "That doesn't sound like much of a prize."

"But it's a tradition, right, Max?" Max quickly nodded a confirmation, looking particularly angelic.

God, she's so beautiful - 

He smiled at Max and her grin broadened. She looked happy and relaxed. Logan couldn't remember the last time he'd seen her so -

"Logan, check out that girl over there by the bar."

_What? There are other people in the room right now?_ He sighed and scanned the bar area. Amongst the men, there were several women lounging along the polished wood counter and he had no idea which one he was supposed to be noticing in particular. He hoped it wasn't the brunette with the blue streaks in her hair. She was staring back at _him_ and licking her lips. Slightly startled, he turned to Cindy and asked, "Which girl?"

Obviously, it wasn't the correct response.

"'Which girl?' The HOT girl!" Cindy exclaimed incredulously, as if there could be any doubt as to which girl he should be checking out. "MY hot girl! The girl I've been trying to hook up with. Long blond hair. What do you think?"

Logan dutifully looked back at the bar, avoiding the rather intense gaze of the brunette and saw the blond in question: _tall, long legs, good posture, probably works out -_ "Oh." He cleared his throat and rubbed his free hand along his thigh. "She seems very…nice." He didn't know what reaction Cindy expected. Did she think he'd actually share any thoughts about another woman, positive or not, with Max standing not five feet away from him, looking at him like that?

_I can't believe I'm having this conversation -_

"_Nice?_ You need to clean those glasses? Look at her! That shorty is _fine_. Smokin' hot, long legs, tie-her-to-the-bed-posts-sex-kitten fine!" Logan could feel the heat on his face at that description. He drained his glass, hoping the action would hide his blush as he pushed away images of Max writhing on his bed. "You _know_ only a white girl could have an ass that flat and make it look so damn good!" Cindy continued, as she surveyed the blond with eager eyes.

Rather in the same manner as the brunette was doing with _him_.

Logan tried to focus on the conversation, even opened his mouth to respond, but words failed him. _Eyes Only speechless. Mark the date and time._ Cindy lined up a shot and sunk a solid ball into the right corner pocket. Despite the distracting direction of the evening, Logan was quite aware that he hadn't actually missed his shot, giving the game back to her, but at this point he decided to let it ride.

"Been watching that hottie all week," Cindy continued, missing a shot and stepping away from the table. "I figure tonight is the night Original Cindy makes her first move. Tonight I'm gonna get her to talk to me and find out her name."

"Why don't you just ask her out?" Logan smiled, bemused by the conversation in spite of himself.

"See now, sugar, there you go thinking like a _man _again." _I _am_ a man, Cindy._ He kept a neutral expression as she continued. "All obvious and goal-oriented! The female mind don't work that way. You gotta let a shorty know you're interested first. Women like a little seduction, you know. They like knowing someone's into them. First you watch the girl, then you let her _catch_ you watchin' her."

Logan raised an eyebrow. "I thought women considered that _stalking_."

"Not if you do it_right_! Baby, I've got moves, another week and that girl's gonna be my ever willin' sex-slave. You just wait."

_Oh-kay -_ "So, you're going to take it slow?"

"Exactly!" The look Original Cindy gave him made him wonder if there was more to this conversation than being friendly. Whatever it was, it eluded him.

He seemed to have passed some sort of test though as she continued to 'educate' him in the fine art of seducing women as they played their game. Somehow the conversation became less shocking and more entertaining as it progressed, and the three settled into a comfortable banter. Logan actually felt relaxed and comfortable, and was pleasantly surprised that he was able to slide back behind the cue with such ease. He made sure he paid particular attention to Max. She'd invited him, after all, and as her 'date' it was only natural and appropriate that he behave courteously. He felt bold enough to look her in the eye when she spoke and wondered if it was the alcohol that had given him permission to be himself.

He sighed. Considering one of the reasons for the decay of his marriage, that would be ironic.

"Eight ball, corner," Logan announced as he made the final shot and won the game. He grinned, genuinely delighted. _Yep. I've still got it._ "Looks like I just won the privilege of buying you a drink."

"Why don't you go order up a pitcher of beer and find us a table in the back. We'll meet you in a minute. We have to go to the Ladies' Room!"

Max looked puzzled. "We do?"

"We do," Original Cindy said forcefully. She smiled at Logan and steered her friend into another corner of the bar. Max had time to send him an 'I-have-no-clue' look before they disappeared in the direction of the washrooms. He shook his head and wheeled his way through the crowd towards the bar.

"What'll it be?" the bartender asked. Logan had passed the brunette with the blue streaks and ignored her frank appraisal of him. Instead, he'd wheeled further than was necessary and stopped beside a young man with blond hair who sat at the bar, elbows on the wooden surface, very focused on his drink. He wondered briefly how anyone could shut out the noise so well that it didn't seem to interrupt his thoughts at all.

"A pitcher of beer, please," Logan said, raising his voice to be heard and pulling out some bills. "And could I have three fresh glasses? We left our other ones over there." Logan nodded towards the pool table, where some young people were already setting up a game. He laughed softly at the thought. _You hit thirty and everyone else is a kid._

"No problem," the bartender said, grinning. "You find yourself a table and I'll bring it over."

"Thanks." Logan turned and headed for a small table in the corner, one of the few that were available. It'd be a bit tight for three but that was alright. There were only two chairs, anyway. He shrugged and turned so he could watch the room. _Only need two chairs -_

He paused in the middle of locking his brakes when he realized how he'd just processed that information. He'd thought about the chairs in a practical way, not bitterly as if someone had made a point of leaving room for the 'cripple' to park. He finished locking the brakes and leaned back, thinking. It was odd, really. He'd never considered himself a bitter person - and certainly didn't like his coffee that way. It wasn't as if he'd ever taken the time to learn how to tap dance or was an avid hiker or liked to jog, and if he was still capable of doing so he knew he wouldn't make the time now. But the stark knowledge that he'd never have the chance for any of those activities had almost made him give up bothering to continue.

And now he'd just dismissed the missing third chair without an ounce of angst.

A young woman in a tight denim outfit brought him the pitcher of beer and three glasses. They shared a smile and a nod and he scanned the crowd for Max. There she was, over by a doorway talking with Original Cindy. He tried not to stare but it wasn't easy. She seemed right at home in the bar, comfortable in her own skin and radiant.

Then suddenly she turned his way and he darted his gaze to the bar. Unfortunately, the brunette who'd been eyeing him earlier was still there and stared back. He frowned. She laughed and he looked at Max again only to find her staring at him, too. There was a moment where they both realized what the other was doing, and then she ducked her head. Uncertain how to feel about that, he poured himself a glass of beer and attempted to occupy himself by trying to make out the lyrics to the song blaring from the speaker nearby.

Max and Cindy seemed to be having quite the discussion. When he checked them again, Max was doing all the talking and her friend had assumed the posture of someone who has heard it all before. A few minutes later, the conversation was obviously over. Cindy looked resigned as she headed for the table he'd found. Max followed her. He filled their glasses. Cindy thanked him and informed Logan that she would be putting drinks on his tab for the rest of the evening or until she won the next game, whichever came first. Then she left them alone and headed into the crowd.

Logan looked up at Max, as she looked a bit distracted. "Anything wrong?"

"Oh. No..." He suspected she was stalling but decided not to push it. She sat and added, "I think Cindy just wants to make that move on her hottie, that's all." Logan thought he saw Original Cindy start for one of her co-workers - _what is his name? Scratchy, Sketchy, Sneezy, something like that _- who was intensely, if drunkenly, discussing something with the blond young man Logan had noted when he was getting the pitcher of beer and an older man who was sitting nearby. She changed her mind, though, and Logan tracked her as she headed for the foosball table.

Ah, the leggy blond.

"But what's with you and pool?" Max asked, changing the topic. He recognized a 'redirection' when he heard one. "Holding out on me? I never thought that the Cales would hang out in the neighborhood pool room."

"No, but as they do with a lot of things, when the snootier types find something they want to try that they think is beneath them, they hang a fancy label on it to make it fashionable and worthy of them." He chuckled. "Macaroni and cheese is _beneath_ them, so they 'invented' fettuccini alfredo. They'd never hang out in a pool room, but they have billiard rooms in their homes and billiard tables at the club - close enough to pool to let me win beer money at school."

That made her grin. Logan enjoyed her company, and decided that even though they were in a noisy place like Crash, as long as he was with Max, he'd be fine.

They talked about nothing and everything, forgettable topics in a night he'd remember for a while. It wasn't all that many minutes after Original Cindy left that two of Max's co-workers joined them: Herbal and Druid. They helped themselves to what was left in their pitcher and started talking to Logan about this and that around Seattle. To his surprise, he didn't find it too difficult to understand Herbal's Rasta-speak.

"This table needs a refill," Max announced. Logan smiled at her and nodded but discovered that he was quite comfortable having her leave. He was talking to the two men about the latest crackdown by the sector cops and it was interesting to get their perspective.

_Maybe I should put on my journalist's hat_, he thought idly, then decided to keep that for another time. This was his night off and he mentally told Eyes Only to take a hike.

It didn't seem like much time had passed that Max was back, placing the pitcher on their table and saying brightly, "Logan, it's 10:20. You made me promise to remind you." He stared at her, completely puzzled with regards to the relevance of this information, nor did he have any recollection of asking her to tell him anything. Then she turned to her friends and continued. "It's his great aunt in Europe, a _zillion_ time zones away - it's her _birthday_, and he's got to call her first thing on her special morning... You know, he's her favorite _nephew_, blah blah..."

Logan pursed his lips and nodded, gathering she needed to leave and figuring he could ask later.

"In Belgium, actually. Thanks, Max. We'd better get going." He didn't rush things but shook hands all around, assuring Herbal and Druid in brief but unhurried words that he'd enjoyed their talk. As she led them toward the alley exit, Logan noticed that Max kept her face down and shielded herself from the bar as much as she could without looking obvious, glancing back to Logan a few times.

He was smart enough to resist the urge to look over at the bar.

Once they'd reached the door, she seemed to relax a bit. He raised an eyebrow, a silent question, and she smiled. He looked forward to her explanation as to why he needed an important telephone call to get them both out of Crash.

He hoped she'd trust him enough to tell him if it had anything to do with Manticore.

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Stay tuned for another exciting installment next week!


	22. Zack 4, by BlueAngel137

**A/N: **This is the last chapter from Zack's POV, and our "Crash Challenge" slowly comes to an end - just a few more chapters. I'd like to say thank you again to Shy for the perfect beta and to my fellow Writers' Pulse peeps.

Hope you enjoy.

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**Pretending A Bit**

(written by BlueAngel137, beta-ed by Shywr1ter)

xxx

"You have enemies? Good. That means you've stood up for something, sometime in your life."

_Winston Churchill (1874 - 1965)_

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_11:20 p.m., Seattle__ waterfront_

A soft wind was blowing, caressing the leaves in the trees, carrying some drops of salt water and the humidity of just another Seattle drizzle with it. Right behind Alaskan Way the Pacific Ocean was visible, a black mass, accentuated by blurry yellow spots, reflecting the lights of the city. It was quiet. The cab that had dropped off the drunk Colonel had disappeared minutes ago, and there weren't many cars on the streets at this time of the night.

Zack couldn't help the soft sigh of relief that escaped him as he straddled his bike. The tension he'd felt during the last couple of hours vanished gradually, lifting from his shoulders and slowly but surely removing the pressure from his chest. He took a deep, calming breath, feeling the cool air flow into his lungs.

His shoulders slumped, and suddenly he was tired to his bones.

_Damn, this was one helluva evening_, Zack thought with a barely noticeable shake of his head. Exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him. His black motorcycle helmet seemed suddenly to weigh a ton, and his aching muscles made him realize only now how tense he'd been. He was just glad Lydecker had been too wasted to notice.

_Never lose control_, one of the Colonel's favorite slogans flitted through Zack's mind, resulting in a disgusted snort. The X5 still wasn't able to believe his former commander's behavior. _Everybody has a weak spot, _Zack thought, narrowing his eyes. He'd found Lydecker's weakness and that fact alone had been worth it, even though there hadn't been much new to learn from Lydecker's drunken ramblings.

… _If you go for the hollow bones, they can't fight, and with solid bones they can't fly. Wings are pointless. Superfluous. …_

Was it really possible that they'd had this conversation? Zack pressed his lips together, his right hand already closing around the key to start the engine of his Ducati. Looking at everything from a distance, the whole evening seemed suddenly surreal, absurd … completely off.

… _Besides, security is too tight for another escape…_, another tiny shred of their conversation wormed its way through Zack's brain. It towered over him like a huge, dark shadow, reminding him to be careful and not to underestimate the threat Lydecker posed.

_Maybe it's time to contact Max_, Zack wondered, still vividly remembering his sister's haunted glance as she'd recognized Lydecker. A wild mixture of panic, fear and hatred had been reflected in her beautiful, dark eyes. But she'd not instantly fled – NO – she'd gone back for the wheel-chair guy and they'd left together. And Zack wasn't sure he liked that.

THEY weren't supposed to get attached. It complicated things, made them vulnerable. They had to keep moving in enemy territory, and a relationship was just a millstone round an X5's neck. Why didn't his siblings see this?

And Lydecker? … He'd be happy if he knew …_or be disappointed that his "kids" hadn't turned out the way they were supposed to_. That was sick – plain and simple … completely sick. But Zack was sure he'd detected the slightest trace of pride in Lydecker's voice as the man had admitted that Max was the first solid lead he'd had in years.

_DAMN_, and why did he feel the urge to hit something? Zack clenched his teeth. The muscles around his jaw tensed, as his narrowed, unseeing eyes fixed on a spot in the distance. It took him some seconds before he realized that his glance had been drawn to the skyscrapers of Sector Nine.

_Damn._

Would Max still be able to leave Seattle? Or was it already too late? His throat suddenly constricted, as if in a cold, iron grip. Brows knotting together, Zack slapped the visor of his helmet down and furiously turned the key in the ignition. He hit the start button, and the bike whirred to life.

Just hearing the familiar sound soothed him a bit.

Zack's eyes were drawn to the inky glass façade of the Seattle Marriott Waterfront, mounting above Elliott Bay. He was relieved he finally knew where Lydecker was staying. He had yet to find out which room the Colonel occupied. _But not now_. The soft whirr of the engine got louder as Zack shifted the bike into gear and twisted the handle to accelerate.

Tiredness had him still in its tight grip when Zack sped off, heading for Sector Five. There were still a few things he had to take care of before he could bunk down for the night. He itched to make plans for the next day. He had to find a way to get in and out of the hotel without being noticed, and it was essential that he follow Lydecker to his base of operations.

But right now he would make sure Max had made it safely back home. …

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_Sector Five, 20 minutes later_

As always Zack couldn't elude the rush of speed. The hum of the engine droned in his ears, the head wind yanked at his clothes, and he was wide awake again … he felt strong, free and alive.

Lights flashed by. The needle of the speed indicator danced toward 45 mph when Zack suddenly heard the sound of another motorcycle. He accelerated, already pushing his Ducati far above the local speed limits. But the hum of the other engine got louder until Zack felt the presence of the other driver only inches behind.

_Damn, is this guy crazy? _

(And hadn't he heard this sound before?)

Zack twisted the handle of his bike and felt a first powerful adrenalin kick as the Ducati shot through the night. The streets were wet, tiny drops of water gleaming silvery in the beam of the bike's headlight. The drone of both motorcycles merged, sounding unnaturally loud in the silence.

He wouldn't get rid of the second driver, Zack finally realized, and he risked a sideways glance, catching a glimpse of a dark figure leaning deep over her Kawasaki Ninja. The adrenalin level in his body went up another notch. His eyes shot back to the street ahead, his mind still completely filled with the breathtaking picture of his opponent as her dark hair fluttered in the wind, white teeth flashing in the darkness, clearly enjoying the ride.

_God … Max_, his mind screamed.

Seeing only the street that raced by dangerously quickly, Zack's thoughts spun wildly as he felt rather then saw her challenging eyes on him.

_Reduce speed!_

_Stop now._

_Speak with her._

_REDUCE SPEED!_

But for once he didn't listen to reason. He was intoxicated, his senses running on overdrive. And he carelessly let the flush carry him away as he shot through the battered concrete canyons of the city.

A satisfied smile tugged at his lips as they took a 90 degree turn to the right, closely beside each other, motorcycles perfectly in control despite the wet streets and high speed. The smile grew into a grin.

Zack knew Max had probably no idea with whom she was dealing. He assumed she'd hate him if he crashed into her life to remind her who and WHAT she was. There were some rules to follow in order to survive, and Max had never been fond of rules. Yet, the time would come when Zack had to play the "big-brother-card" to keep her safe.

…

_But not right now - at the moment it felt good to pretend a bit. _

**TBC**

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**Feedback much welcome!**


	23. Max 6, by Shywr1ter

**Disclaimer:** No ownership of characters or DA; no profits made.

**A/N:** This chapter is the final regular chapter in this group project, begun in October, 2006, and developed through the talent, patience, support, bravery and good humor of my Pulsette sisters, **BlueAngel137, Insane Troll Logic, Lisa0316, Mari83 **and** Lilmouse**. They all will be back one more time in an Epilogue to bring us to a close. It has been a joy and a privilege to work with them in this project that has spanned several time zones, three countries, and thirteen months. To all of you Pulsettes, my very sincere and enthusiastic thanks!

And to all of you out there who have read and offered reviews, comments, and support, our thanks as well – it has been very much appreciated...

_xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxooxoxoxoxoxoxo_

"**Assessing the Damage**"

_The Crash Challenge_,_Max POV 6, by Shywr1ter_

**"It is not in the stars to hold our destiny, but in ourselves."**

--William Shakespeare,

1564-1616

_xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxooxoxoxoxoxoxo_

_It was a good night – a great night – but then life just comes back to bite me in the ass._

Max's temper burned still bright as she stomped toward home, wet enough in the inevitable evening rain she didn't bother hurrying; it wouldn't make her any less so, and she was almost enjoying the chance to fume through her frustration. Now, a half hour after the sector police literally stole her bike from her and she'd had even more time to work up her ire at them, she found herself even more angry at the fact that their larcenous interruption of her race with big-head had completely ruined the good feeling she'd had about the evening – well, that and Lydecker showing up, in Seattle...

_...in Crash... _

Any chance she might have had to convince herself that his being in Seattle was just a coincidence, that he hadn't tracked her, was dashed by his actually appearing in Crash, where she spent half her life now. _He might as well have appeared in Jam Pony or at Logan's_, she told herself. _Who was it, after all, who taught you that a "coincidence" usually__** wasn't**__ one? And of all the lousy times for him to show up, too, _Max glowered, eyes down as she trudged along, not really seeing the pavement before her. _Totally wrecked my evening. __**Logan's**__ evening..._

The fuming helped her ignore the small but insistent clutch of fear in her stomach that Lydecker was around, that it meant she might have to abandon Seattle, a place she'd finally come to think of as _home_... a place she _wanted_ to stay. The long walk across town let her remember it all ... the good start to the evening ... the abrupt ending ... _both_ abrupt endings...

She had seen Lydecker at the bar and nearly obeyed her first instincts, to bolt, to get on her bike and not look back. But her mind kicked in immediately after her gut had and she could not run like that, not without seeing to it that Logan got home, safely, maybe not without waiting to see if she really had to leave Seattle this time. She hadn't realized how tired she was of living on the run ... and in these past several months, while she still needed to keep her eyes open, never letting her guard down, she now had friends here, and a job ... a _home_ ... Logan...

...especially Logan, she admitted to herself. Logan, who in the short time she'd known him had pulled her not only out of Lydecker's clutches, but out of jail; he had located more info on Manticore in the past several weeks than she'd managed, alone, in a decade. She liked having a confidante – even if she'd not really confided anything yet, just knowing she _could_ spill, something she could never do before, took the weight of the world off her shoulders. She liked having a friend who was witty and intelligent. _An eccentric wealthy playboy type turned whack do-gooder_, she allowed herself to chuckle...

She liked Logan.

... she ... _liked_ Logan? The word wasn't enough somehow, but she wasn't sure what the right word would be. And that dilemma occupied several minutes of the long walk between sectors...

Thoughts of Logan helped her anger and fear simmer down to a more quiet seething, even pushing more recent events to the back of her mind as she considered his initial discomfort and eventual ease in Crash. Definitely not his peeps or his usual hang-out, but he'd managed to finally relax and have a good time ...

...he came with her ..._ to Crash_ ... to a place he'd never go without being dragged. And he'd been determined to try and enjoy the evening ... for her? She couldn't come up with any other reason he would, and the thought of that made her wonder all over again about her feelings for Logan Cale...

Of course, as soon as they were outside, in the alley, he'd asked why she'd pulled him out of there so quickly, and he clearly didn't believe her when she tried to play it off, even when she went so far as to admit she saw someone in the bar who looked just like one of her captors at Manticore – _not exactly a lie, Max, who would more like Lydecker than Don himself?_she rationalized – but he didn't press her on it. He'd also pulled up again after about a half mile's drive, when he saw that she was following him home...

"Max, there's no need to follow me," he'd said, as she rolled up beside his open window. "Maybe you ought to get off the streets, just in case it _is_ someone from Manticore looking for you." Clearly having thought things over after she bustled him out of Crash, Logan added stoically, "and maybe you just ought to get out of Seattle, for a while at least. It was already a close enough call out on Sedro Island, Lydecker finding you so close."

"He didn't find me – you of all people should know that, since you helped shake him," she heard herself argue.

Logan's eyes softened, but in worry for her, and he tipped his head slightly as he tried to reason with her. "Max – he knows you're in the area. He's likely to keep looking."

She'd wavered at that, knowing he was right, but knowing now that Logan was one of the main reasons she didn't want to leave. "I'll think it over," she shrugged. "So go on home so I can get off the streets."

"You don't have to..." he began again.

"You're on my way," she lied blatantly, knowing he knew exactly where she lived, and that her response would tell him just what she thought of his suggestion. "C'mon – get going."

With a resigned sigh, Logan put the car back into motion again Max fell in behind him. _Another reason to like having an intelligent friend around_, she'd smirked, _it took him only the first couple times we met to understand that I'm going to do what I need to do, when it needs doing ..._

As she trailed Logan into Sector Nine, she noted that there was still no sign of their stalker-turned-savior, the Ducati guy. She'd mostly stopped worrying about him at Crash until he'd bailed her out with Lydecker, dousing him with his beer so the Colonel would never see her in the distraction. She could almost make herself believe _that_ was just a lucky break, a nice guy's gallant response to seeing her shock at finding Lydecker there, bellied up to _her_ bar...

...if it hadn't been for those eyes, meeting hers.

He was _familiar_ to her now, too; she had a vague memory of the look in those eyes before, but a dim image, just eluding her, as she sometimes had with events surrounding a bad seizure. He was too young to have been a soldier in Don's army when she was there, but he might be one of the many chasing her on Sedro Island – she hadn't gotten a good look at all of them, only partial glimpses of some as she ran with Hanna. He could be a soldier, with his build, his demeanor...

...he_ could_ be.

But if he'd been waiting there for them in Sector Nine, was he waiting for Logan? Was he tailing her, or the both of them, for Lydecker? Or ... for himself?

She'd shut down that last thought, not knowing what to make of it: _what if it was one of her brothers? Ben? __**Zack?**_ Would the joy in finding one of them compensate for how pissed off she'd be, that he was here, tailing her, and never identified himself to her? Admitting to herself, grudgingly, that it was something that she might actually do, too, depending on the circumstances, didn't make an ass kicking any seem less justified...

He'd tailed them; he'd come into Crash. He recognized that she needed to get away from Lydecker before Deck saw her; he inserted himself into things to provide a diversion and even more, had made a point of meeting her eyes, making a statement.

...and she _knew_ him from somewhere.

She'd waited outside Fogle Towers, astride her bike, patiently watching for Logan's lights to come on before she gunned her engine back to life and moved on down the street. She was too wound up to go home and couldn't go back to Crash, at least not tonight, maybe not for a few days.

_So now what?_

She'd looped back to the side street where she'd first seen the Ducati and its rider. No clues; nothing to follow. With a sudden thought, she swung back onto the street and rode back to Crash, her return trip taking only half as long as it had the first time...

Bending low over her handle bars she rode through the alley where she'd seen the Ducati, before they all went into Crash. Disappointed, but not surprised, she saw that the bike was gone.

...but_ not_ gone! In another moment, the motorcycle's distinctive, powerful engine revved up, and Max could hear it on the move a couple streets over. In only moments she found the Ducati, now trailing a seedy city cab much as it had followed her, earlier. A smile settled in on her features. _The pursuer becomes the pursued,_ she challenged. She'd get the answers about this one, one way or the other.

_...and oh, please, don't let it be one of my brothers,_ she added in silent, murmured thought. _I will so have to kick his ass for getting such a stupid, big helmet..._

And it had started playing out so well, and had made things seem so much better after the shock of seeing Lydecker there in Seattle: Max had followed the Ducati and the cab to a waterfront hotel, where she saw, from across the intersection, Lydecker being poured out of the cab, almost onto his hands and knees. The Ducati rider waited apart, himself watching the stumbling Lydecker wrestle his way inside through a surprisingly tricky revolving door. Any enjoyment Max might have had at watching Lydecker make such a fool of himself was lost in her burning curiosity to learn who the motorcyclist was...

So he'd followed Lydecker; kept an eye on him at a distance. One of his men? Possibly. _One of my sibs?_ Now _they_ would have more reason to watch at a distance, as she did, than any of his troops...

Once Deck was inside, the Ducati fired up quickly and sped off in the night, its speed climbing ever faster. With growing excitement, barely allowing her hope to grow that it might be one of her brothers, Max revved up her own speed and, throwing all caution behind her now, swung in behind the motorcycle in front of her, her speed gobbling up the distance between them at an alarming rate.

She saw the rider speed up, clearly in response to her pursuit, and she matched and passed his surge. The adrenalin rush like a drug, Max pulled along side of the dark rider and grinned with the flush of power and freedom she suddenly felt. The other rider first looked surprised, then almost concerned ... but he recognized her, she knew he did, if only from Crash. And as his own cycle sped ahead, next to hers, she saw his grin, much like hers...

... but her damned luck didn't hold...

Maybe she'd let her attention waver as she mentally played out the interrogation, first demanding to know who he was, which brother, where he'd been, where the others were, why he was there, and oh, how could he have left her alone so long...

She'd been buoyed by the game of cat and mouse they'd played between the alleys and streets; she'd let herself enjoy the race and would have kept it going when she found him again, when they crossed at the intersection. But she should have thought about their proximity to the checkpoint and the sector police, knowing that once she'd been seen, if she didn't stop but tried to sneak between sectors somewhere else outside of a manned crossing, she'd end up way too high on their radar...

... that was all an hour ago now, as she, still steamed, climbed long stairs to walk out on the familiar disc that flew silently over Seattle. Angry... and now, admittedly, a little fearful of Lydecker's appearance and what it meant ... a little hurt that she'd lost her brother again, the figure she'd decided _must_ be her brother, and why he insisted on remaining hidden from her.

But the cool night air and the beauty of her mile-high retreat worked to calm and comfort her, as it often did. She looked first over toward Crash, where her friends were probably still having fun, Cindy maybe even hooked up now with her blonde dream girl, the boys, as always, laughing and arguing over Sketchy's ever-more-ludicrous conspiracy theories. Whomever he was, her brother knew where to find her now, she had to believe, even if Lydecker did, too. _Maybe in a day or so he'd show himself. I'll be there, when you do,_ she vowed...

...and with that thought, her eyes swung over to Sector Nine and one of the taller buildings in that area, a familiar, angular building, and she indulged in imagining what it would be like to sit here and, somehow, watch herself, a little speck, fly from the adjoining building to the top of that one, and disappear into the waiting Penthouse, below...

...where Logan Cale was inside, probably still at it, checking his messages and the state of the world, seeing what calamities may have occurred while Eyes Only dared to kick back with some new friends for the evening at Crash. With any luck, the world was still in one piece, such as it was, and he would see that it was okay to go shoot some pool, once in a while. She hoped he would, anyway...

Max sighed, the adrenalin rush eased, her mind clearer. _One day at a time,_ she counseled herself. Eyes open and ear to the ground, making it up as she went along... but from _here._ In Seattle. Her _home._

...because she'd been made to deal. And all in all ... life here in Seattle had plenty more ahead to offer, even for a revved up girl, just trying to get by. After her evening in Crash, seeing the kindness in Cindy as she eased Logan's visit, seeing Logan's game efforts to join in with her friends, Max realized she wasn't going to let Lydecker make her give it all up without a fight ... and, with a certain peace settling over her, even with all that had happened that evening, Max sat back to gaze out over the city she planned to call home for a good long time to come...

_**and, finally, coming soon: Epilogue**_


	24. Epilogues, by Writers' Pulse

**Disclaimer:** No ownership of characters or DA; no profits made.

**A selfish, sappy but heartfelt A/N: **This final bow from each of us seems fitting for Thanksgiving, even if not all the characters in the story can see it: friendships, even the screwy ones in an up-ended, crazy world, are what get us through intact. I am thankful for each and every one of the writers who gave their time and never-ending enthusiasm and support for this challenge. It's been thirteen months and a handful of days since the original challenge-invitation was posted, and we lost some and gained some participants before the story was underway and ready for posting. We spanned three countries and crossed many more time zones; we represent a wide range of backgrounds, interest and experience – yet this was smooth sailing throughout.

**Lilmouse, Mari, Blue, Lisa & Troll** – thank you for casting in with this insane project. It has been a joy. (hope you don't mind me sneaking in one final quote!)

**All of you reading** — thank you. We'd love to hear your thoughts on the project. To those of you hearty souls hanging in and faithfully reviewing every week — your support means more than you can imagine. Special pumpkin pie with whipped cream thanks to you!

**Epilogue(s)**

_"The person who tries to live alone will not succeed as a human being. His  
heart withers if it does not answer another heart. His mind shrinks away if he hears only the  
echoes of his own thoughts and finds no other inspiration."_

--Pearl S. Buck, 1892-1973

**Original Cindy** by Lisa

With a satisfied smirk, Original Cindy tucked the scrap of paper inside her bra. She had not only scored some face time with her targeted shorty, but she had managed to obtain a name _and_ phone number as well, and she wasn't taking any chances with it. It was shaping up to be a good night after all.

She wondered how Max was getting on with her own hottie and scanned the bar for them. She spotted Max and Logan just as they were rushing out the back door. Max was practically pushing the boy. She figured maybe those two were finally clued in and scurrying off to find a bed or the nearest available flat surface. It was about damn time. Cindy smiled her blessing at their retreating forms, silently wishing them a happy gong banging.

Then she saw Max's give a quick, furtive look over her shoulder, and Cindy's smile faltered a bit. Her girl didn't look right. Cindy saw Max looking positively freaked out, straight up terrified, and she glanced around the bar for anything that could have upset her friend so much. But Cindy didn't notice anything outside of the ordinary, just the usual peeps getting their drink on and making their moves.

She'd catch Max in the morning, find out what happened and put the smack down on anyone who was screwing with her girl's head. Nobody messed with Original Cindy's crew and got away with it.

* * *

**Sketchy** by Lisa 

_Oh my god, I'm gonna hurl…no…wait…no, I'm okay. No wait, I'm gonna hurl._

_No, I'm okay._

_Jesus, it smells like garbage in here…Where the hell am I anyway?_

_How the hell did I wind up in here again?_

_Oh man…Why does shit like this always happen to me?_**  
**

* * *

**Murray** by Mari 

Locking up Crash's back door for the night, Murray repetitiously checked the dark, narrow alley behind him with some quick, nervous glances over his shoulder. Nowadays simply roaming around in these parts of Seattle at night was just as good as a personal invitation for robbery.

Mostly though the only sign of life were the beggars that had bedded themselves in the relative security of the back yard, shrunken bundles of dirty clothes long having forgotten their past lives. Murray just couldn't walk past them lying there, was unable to just leave them to the night chill when he went to the comfort and warmth of his own modest apartment. So he tried to rouse them, enclosing their stiff, icy fingers around some bits of small change while he helped them up and sent them on their way, knowing that they'd lie down again on the cold concrete just around the next corner.

Today though the back yard was empty and silent… except for the strange, strangled grunts coming from one of the dumpsters. Already having a strong suspicion that the sounds weren't coming from some savaged dogs searching for food, he went over to the metal container with a sigh, impatient to finally get to bed.

Of course it was Sketchy. Again. It would always remain a miracle to Murray how the guy managed to fall into the dumpsters at least once a month.

As he halfheartedly listened to Sketchy's drunken ramblings, Murray wondered what would have become of the boy if the Pulse hadn't hit. Maybe he wouldn't even have spent his time all that different, only numbing his brain with booze and pot at college parties instead of a run-down bar… others of his generation, however, had never even had a chance to make something of their potential, had been deprived of an otherwise brilliant career. Max for example. As much as she tried to hide it, the girl was definitely a lot brighter than Crash's average customer. Murray had noticed her quick mind long before she'd demonstrated that astonishing trick of remembering phone numbers only by their dial sound, had seen her intelligence in the way she promptly picked up everything new, was it pool or a new card game. Being a bike-messenger was such an awful waste of talent for someone smart enough to catch the subtle hints on quantum physics and check Murray occasionally wove into his conversations just to prove himself that his brain was still working.

At least with the handsome guy in the wheelchair Max seemed to have found someone who genuinely cared for her, a person who maybe even could help her deal with whatever had shaken her so much today. Even now, hours later, Murray still vividly remembered the look of sheer, mortified horror on her face upon discovering the drunken colonel at the bar. Her inexplicable reaction confirmed Murray's uneasy suspicion that there was something odd, potentially threatening about the colonel whose dominating authority shone through even when babbling ridiculous nonsense. There even seemed to be a strange connection between all three of them, Max, the colonel and the blonde soldier guy, who seemed to have spilled his beer onto the older man on purpose, as if he'd wanted to protect Max. But in all likelihood, Murray thought as he carefully loaded a dump-smelling Sketchy into the passenger seat of his car, he was just starting to see ghosts, his poor brain going crazy after having listened to abstruse conspiracy theories all evening.

* * *

**Normal** by Lisa 

With a tired sigh, Reagan Ronald rolled over in bed and placed his book on the haphazardly stacked literary tower that resided on his nightstand. He carefully placed _The Election of 1992_ on top of _Molecular Pharmacology in the 21__st__ Century_; a complete and unabridged volume of Wm. Shakespeare; a much loved edition of _Who Moved My Cheese?_; an handbook on effective management in the corporate setting; and three battered and outdated copies of _The New England Journal of Medicine. _He folded his glasses and placed them on top of the stack in preparation for bed.

Instead of sleep, he lay in bed and glowered at a crack in the ceiling. He should know better than to read about Ross Perot before bed; it always left him in a sour mood. If that independent had stayed home and minded his own business, George H. W. Bush would have had a second term and America would still be the glorious superpower it used to be.

Thinking about the downfall of society inevitably led to him thinking about the downfall of his personal life and the morons that accumulated at Jam Pony like junk in the bottom of the sink drain. Those imbeciles would be the death of him, he was sure of it. He remembered listening in on Max and Original Cindy that morning. He idly wondered how they were enjoying their evening out, then he was immediately annoyed at himself for thinking about it.

Those losers better not be late tomorrow morning just because they played too much and couldn't drag their sorry heinies out of bed. He stewed on that thought for a few moments, then reached over and set his alarm clock and extra fifteen minutes early. There was no way those two would get away with sneaking in late again, and if they tried any monkey business tomorrow, he would be there waiting.

* * *

**Logan** by Lilmouse 

It is two-thirty in the morning.

He sits at his living room window, nursing a glass of white wine and watching the city of Seattle murmur below him. Before the wheelchair, he barely looked at the view. Before the wheelchair, roses were something he had an assistant send to a lady for courting purposes. Before the wheelchair, he was far too busy to do his own shopping and had his laundry sent out, and he certainly didn't make the time to 'unplug' and spend an evening relaxing.

Logan Cale looks at the view a lot now. He doesn't have an assistant - per se - so no roses are being sent. He isn't courting anyone but imminent death by continuing to be Eyes Only. He buys his own vegetables at the market and washes his own socks. And last night, he went to a bar, played pool and 'hung out' with a beautiful woman and her friends.

And had a great time.

_Who knew?_

He's worried about Max and the whole issue of someone from Manticore being this close to locating her. Max followed him home, for crying out loud, when she should probably have been making a hasty retreat from Seattle. He doesn't want her to leave, but it might be the only option she has to avoid being caught.

He tries not to think too much about _why_ he doesn't want her to leave. Selfish reasons loom before him, none of which make sense in the real world. After all, they're not like that.

He finishes his wine and unlocks the brakes on his wheelchair. He finally decides to wind down for the evening and dims most of the lights. He's been reliving every moment of his tantalizing 'night of freedom', unable to sleep. _Crash and Manticore._ Those two threads keep weaving through his mind and his brain just won't shut down. The wine has made him a little sleepy, though, so he hopes that when his head hits the pillow, unconsciousness will come swiftly.

Logan enters his bedroom, transfers from the chair and strips, tossing his clothes to the floor. He doesn't set the alarm. Eyes Only might be late focusing on crime come the dawn.

For the first time in a long while, he's okay with that.

He lies back in the dark and listens to the sounds of his apartment. Then he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and lets it out again slowly.

_Max._

He'll call her tomorrow, make sure she's alright, thank her for convincing him to join her at Crash.

Remembering how she looked on the drive over when he'd checked his rear-view mirror - straddling her bike, hair blowing, laughing - is his final thought before sleep claims him, a small smile on his face.

* * *

**Zack **by BlueAngel 

Zack leaned his back against the wooden apartment door, closing it with a final click. He didn't bother to switch on the light. Being able to see in the dark had some advantages. And as he knew that Lydecker was in town, Zack was even more careful not to give away his exact position, just in case anybody might have followed him.

Would he EVER be able to go "home" without having to worry that someone was pursuing him? Would Manticore ever stop looking for them? And what the hell was he going to do with Max?

… Max, you have to leave Seattle. (You have to leave your friends … your job. You have to abandon your life … the wheelchair-guy). Seattle's not safe for you anymore. …

Somehow he could picture her reaction on that quiet well. He could see her dark eyes widening and filling with overwhelming sadness. And later in that discussion those same eyes would blaze with anger and disappointment. And finally she'd hide her emotions behind that sassy, smart-ass attitude and some sarcastic comments. _Just great. _He'd already had his share of arguments with his other siblings.

Zack closed his eyes, not willing to deal with this decision tonight. There was only so much even an X5 could handle on one day. And a part of him refused to have this fight with Max.

He didn't want her to hate him.

_Tomorrow_, he thought to himself with a tired nod. _Tomorrow I'll decide what to do._

* * *

**Lydecker**by Insane Troll Logic 

Donald Lydecker has a hangover--a rather spectacular one at that. His head throbs, his stomach churns and more than once, he has to swallow the bile building up in his throat. He can see his officers regarding him strangely as he walks into their base of operations nearly three hours late. He can see the speculation, the questions burning on their lips. The first one who dares voice it will be dismissed in the harshest way Lydecker can imagine.

"What's our status on the X-5s?" Lydecker asks.

"Nothing at the moment, sir," one of the technicians says, scrambling to pick up the papers on his desk. "We've been listening in on the private eye, but he's yet to make contact with the X-5."

More likely, Lydecker thinks, she's seen the ad and skipped town. Escape and evade, just like he'd taught her.

Still, there's something nagging at him in the back of his mind. Something about the night before, about the blonde and the stoner and the surreal conversation aided by alcohol.

He banishes the night to the back of his head. The last thing he wants is to revisit his own drunken antics. He'll subject himself to a night of listening to self-pity in Alcoholics Anonymous to remind him of what he doesn't want to become.

For now he has more important matters to attend to. Max, 452, is in Seattle, is looking for the others. She's taking risks and where there's risk taking, there is going to be mistakes.

Not even the perfect soldier can stay under the radar forever. Lydecker just has to wait for her to surface for breath.

* * *

**Max** by Shywriter 

So much for that "calm, clear " mind she'd gotten from her night on the Needle. It might not have been raining on her angry trek back to Jam Pony from the impound yard where her motorcycle had been towed by the thieving sector cops who stopped her the night before, but the face of the smarmy, sneering lump of humanity behind the grate kept looming in her thoughts, steaming her even more than the cops had...

"_Three thousand dollars..._"

If she had any question on her arrival there about why he had a grate between his counter and the rest of the office, it was answered right then – certainly he would have been strangled by a 'customer' his first week there.

_Three thousand dollars._

Those three simple words made her earlier, irritating inconvenience into a moral dilemma without easy resolution, made worse by all the simple actions she could have tried only a handful of months before.

_...before Logan Cale..._

She didn't know what she wanted to do: first flatten the tow yard man's nose back into his throat ... bust into the place, to steal back her baby ... or go give Logan a piece of her mind.

_**Now**__ how the hell am I going to get back my bike? _ Max played it all out in her head, only irritating her more as she compared pre-Logan to now: before she met Logan, she might not have punched the guy's lights out but she wouldn't have even bothered to wait until they opened, much less _ask_ how much it would be to buy back her stolen cycle. But now, like a little guardian angel on her shoulder, Logan loomed in her thoughts to tell her not to fight crime with crime...

...well, that, and a little voice of reason pointing out that they could track _her_ with her license plate and bike description, and want to know how such a 'tiny little thing' could break in to steal back her bike...

_So that settles it,_ she grumped in her thoughts as she turned the block and headed for Jam Pony's entrance and another day riding her _other_ bike, _Logan's gonna have to decide how I can do the 'right thing,' since in a way it's __**his**__ fault I'm stuck like this – his Boy Scout sensibilities would be all out of whack if he ever learned I just broke in to take it. Maybe he can get Matt Sung to help, _it occurred to her,_ or he could talk them into a more reasonable ransom. But no way am I gonna let either him or me pay that sniveling rat three thousand dollars..._

* * *

PS: And there you have it. We have now changed 'reality' for the world of Dark Angel, because next time Max sees Zack, she'll recognize him as the guy from the bar! Will Zack still apply at Jam Pony? Will he confess who he is right away, or does Max confront him – or both?

The next challenge, if anyone wants to take it on: write your version of "411 on the DL" with events as they now stand, from this fic... Happy writing!


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